


The Recluse and the Crutch

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Italy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Social Anxiety, Verbal Humiliation, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 08:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20254924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a lake house in the mountains, Louis (very successfully) writes for a living while he pays Harry to clean, cook and occasionally have sex with him.





	1. Happily

**Author's Note:**

> Re-upload of an old story (2014), courtesy of a nostalgic reader. Hope you enjoy dear.  
Un-beta read. All mistakes are mine.

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"You're pathetic. Listen to your pathetic moans. You're nothing. You disgust me."

He couldn't keep the moan in even if he tried. The younger man's thrusts were erratic, hitting his prostate relentlessly. He squirmed and twitched, causing the dick inside of him to hit his spot disorderly, he could feel the scratch, the burn, in his ass. A good burn. He loved it.

"You're nothing but a poor excuse of a man. You're not a man, you're less than nothing. Less than dirt."

Yes yes yes yes yes-

The tight vortex of heat in his guts finally uncoiled and, closing his eyes, he was barrelled towards his orgasm. It was so good. So fucking good. Always so good with him.

Once he opened his eyes, the younger man must had discarded the condom already because he was wanking furiously on his belly. Louis let him.

Anything. He could do anything to Louis in moments like this.

Seconds after, he came too, on Louis' thighs, on his belly. Warm liquid trickeled on the curves of his muscles. He closed his eyes at the sensation, barely hearing the reminder to take his hands off the bed's banister.

His hands were shaking. He was shaking.

He hoped he wasn't crying again. He touched his cheeks. Fuck. Oh well.

It was always like this with Harry.

  


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## Calalzo di Cadore

If you asked him, and if his mother wasn't in the vicinity, he likes Santa Croce lake way more. But alas, it's illegal to build a lake house on any point on the lake's shore. Damn law. That's why the closest choice was Cadore's lake.

It's not too bad. But it's not Santa Croce.

Anyway.

He fell in love with that lake the moment he passed by. The road circles it wonderfully, just a few rows of trees obstructing the view. He wanted to ask the driver to stop there, when they passed by, even when he heard that that wasn't Cadore's lake, where his house waited.

Oh well. The law is the law.

And if he went to live at Santa Croce, he would have never met Harry.

The lazily stretched Cadore(s) are far bigger towns than the tiny, humble two villages on the opposite shores of his number one favourite lake, so big that there are even high schools here in Cadore. And a foreign languages high school means lessons with a mothertongue teacher, and that means Harry's mother.

Calalzo di Cadore.

Ca-lal-zo di Cadore.

Louis' new favourite name for a town. He spent years trying to figure out what is the correct pronunciation. He used to say it out loud every so often, with different accents.

Ca-lal-zo. Ca-lal-zo. Ca-lal-zo.

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The bridge's bell chimes and it reminds Louis that here comes the man who taught him how Cadore is to be called.

Walking to the door, he passes by the kitchen, where the roasted pheasant and potatoes Harry prepared yesterday are being heated up in the oven. His mouth waters but he ignores it. He'll enjoy lunch later.

He presses the button to open the bridge's gate and walks out. At the end of the bridge, waits Niall with the mail.

Niall, half-Irish and half-Italian, is a delightful guy, and possibly the only person Louis truly likes in the whole Cadore district.

"Buongiorno Louissss."(*)

One thing he will never understand is why every Italian he spoke with (truth to be told, the number is not high), has never managed to say his name without the 's'. A la francaise, almost. He smiles at the greeting, anyway, reciprocating.

What is so easy-going about Niall, is that he doesn't comment on anything much.

He doesn't comment on Louis' way to say the 's's, the 'z's and when it's cold, a bunch of other letters. Of the very few and sparse words he says anyway.

He doesn't comment on Louis' limp and consequent walking cane or sometimes crutch. Well, he did, but the one time and Louis dismissed it with a smile and a texted joke and Niall never brought it up again. Same with Louis' elegant and fashionable ever-present bags under his eyes.

He's never said anything about the lake house apart from a compliment on the choice of the spot. And most important of all, he doesn't tell Louis what the people in town think of him. On the contrary, much to Louis' amusement, he rambles on and on about them. How they live, what's going on in Cadore, Louis knows through Niall.

The official stuff, the towns' websites, pamphlets, local history books, statistics and events calendar, he knows thanks to Anne, who provided them to Louis the moment they got in touch, but the everyday stuff, the petty things, the details, burn bright and colourful in Niall's words, in the quick gesticulation, so Italian, in the sparks in his eyes, in the smirks, the grimaces.

Niall talks, Louis nods, laughs, grimaces with him, receives his huge, faded beige bag of (approved) (fan)mail - another thing Niall's never uttered a word about, as said, a great guy - and drives away in his Poste Italiane bright yellow and blue light-quadricycle.

Louis walks back shaking his head at the abhorrent vehicle. In retrospect, he didn't know he was thinking about it in the story of the yellow ghost, but when most Italian fans wrote that the ghost reminded them of a painfully familiar bright thing that haunted their cities, he guessed he couldn't deny it anymore.

Leaving the mail on the nearest armchair, he sat back to work.

Putting one word after the other.

One word after the other.

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(*): Good morning

## Stuck

"What a dull man you are. Dull and boring, that's what you are."

whispers Harry in his ear, the sound of flesh on flesh resounding rythmically in the room, and he is encompassed by shivers, because yes, he's so dull now, he's not the bright child he used to be. He's dull and boring.

"Pathetic, dull and boring. Can't even get out of your house. Never known - ngh - a coward like you."

Harry readjusts the angle, coaxing another cry out of him. There are sparks behind his eyes and his senses are fogged up by a coiling heat in his guts.

He cries and moans and squirms because it's true, every word. He's a coward, he can't make it past the bridge, he's such a coward.

Harry's cock bumps on his spot, stays there, then barrels in and out quickly. Repeat. His mind goes in short-circuit because it's so good.

He never thought that sex could be other than simple thrusts, but Harry sets a rythym that sings directly into his body. Harry's ridiculously long fingers, almost completely covered in spit and lube by now, dig in his hips.

He half sees, through the veil of tears, Harry raising himself until the tip of his cock is enlarging his rim. Harry looks like a pagan god like this. A Northern deity, a sire of demons, a king of bloodlust faeries, something along those lines. But the lines in his mind quickly disappear as Harry plunges down and it's, god, he's going to feel that when he writes and he can't help being so happy about it, he loves it.

"You're nothing. Acting so high and mighty all the time, hiding here in your alcove, who the hell do you think are?"

He mewls at Harry's words mouthed directly on his chest. It's all true, he's small, tiny, hiding from the world.

His cock stings from how hard and neglected it is but the thought of touching it doesn't even cross his mind. During times like this, when he has Harry all to himself, when he's the lucky object of Harry's ministrations, he never touches himself, never.

He never touches Harry either.

That wasn't something Harry told him, the first time, while batting his hands away from his cock, he decided this himself. He can't touch the younger man's body. He's too disgusting, he's a cripple, he's nothing.

He feels Harry's tongue trailing down his chest as the heat spirals in his lower belly, so fast, while more and more tears escape him. Things like this, Harry mouthing and licking his chest and good leg, are things that make him want to implode. His mind doesn't grasp why Harry is so into this, but he doesn't dare question it.

Harry holds back a moan as he meets the his prostate with a particularly strong thrust. It's not the definite push for him though. It's when Harry slides out, takes him in his mouth and with his hand loosely stroking the base he sucks, it's the sudden warmth on his cock on top of Harry's ministrations so far that throws him off the cliff.

He comes so hard, like he always does with Harry.

Once he regains his breath, he notices Harry starts to take his condom off with one hand, while the other massages him through his orgasm, and he jerks himself into focus.

Inside. Please.

He says messily before he can register it. He knows he don't have any right to plead, Harry mostly prefers to come on him apparently, but Harry regards him silently, steady, their eyes meet for a few seconds before Harry's cock slides in his hole again and he grabs his hips again.

Promise of bruises.

He so elated he tries to meet Harry's aggressive thrusts with the remains of his stregth. It's not much, he's not that athletic boy anymore, but Harry comes soon enough, crying a silent cry, his eyes tightly shut for a moment.

Another thing he admires Harry for. He's not as loud as he is, in bed.

Sometimes he wonders about how he must appear in bed, from outside, squirming and emitting all kinds of wet sounds, plus the crying. He must look so horrible, it must be so disgusting, it must be terrible sex, for Harry, the worst.

On such thoughts, half an hour later, he decides to gives Harry fifty extra euros for this time.

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It's a testament to destiny that it happens when he's out on the terrace, smoking. He smokes so rarely, these days. And this October is proving to be one hell of a cold month. It's either destiny or damn stubborness that doesn't make him smoke with his splint on.

Back inside, he's still throughly cold, but he clicks his jaw nonetheless. Instict at first, consciously later. By the entrance to the bathroom, he clicks it again, just because, but it doesn't. it doesn't click.

It's stuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.

FUCK.

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Two hours later he's staring at his phone screen, Harry's chat open. His last message is a run for the groceries and an apologize for lateness. His short 'you don't need to rush' mocks him from his side of the conversation. He was feeling particularly chatty that day, all right?

He sighs. Fuck. But he can't do anything else.

He can text his dentist but who knows when he'll see his phone. If he has many appointments, he'll see it this evening. And he can't text a taxi to get there, anyway. Last time this happened it was during Christmas holiday, at home, so his mom brought him and his old dentist saw to it. Now that he thinks about it, it happened at home the second to last time, too. Oh fuck, it's the first time this happened in Italy, doesn't it? Just his luck.

He sighs again while he nurses his tea. He has sipped a spoonful in half an hour, confirming him that his mouth is useless. He taps the phone awake. He has already panicked twice, on the bathroom's floor. So, unless he wants to stay like this for god knows how long...

Come on, he thinks. He has to do this. He slides the screen awake

Can you- He deletes it and adds a 'hi' at the beginning. He wasn't brought up by wolves.

Hi. Can you call the denti - fuck, which dentist? - your dentist and tell him/her i'll pay 1k for a private consultation asap?

He re-reads it. Yes, there's no mention to his condition. Good. Sends. Now onto the taxi. Niall said he saw one, once. They must have a number. He's browsing for it when the key clicks into place and Harry barges in, the mane that is his hair wild, his cheeks rosy by the cold wind, his eyes frantic. And fuck the time he fainted by exhaustion and Anne demanded two copies of his keys, one for her and one for Harry.

"Lou?" And fuck the nickname, too. Harry crowds on him in a second, he clutches his phone instinctively, from his perched position on the kitchen table's chairs. But Harry doesn't exactly crowd, he kneels right in front of him and places his hands on his knees.

"What's wrong? Is it the jaw?"

Harry's lips are plump and pale from the cold, and the worry etched into the frown is too much for him. He adverts his eyes. Fuck his jaw. Fuck everything.

"Okay. Okay, okay. Come on, I've got the pickup outside."

Harry's not there anymore though, his voice comes from the closet, he comes back in seconds with his coat, his scarf and a beanie. Harry puts the beanie on the table and nudges him upright, leaning on the table. He puts on everything numbly, he hates feeling helpless, but Harry doesn't help him more than holding out his beanie, so he doesn't know if this is being totally helpless after all.

He wants Harry to tell him he's pathetic and a cripple.

But Harry doesn't tell him so, he holds out the crutch, he hurries to the entrance to put back on his shoes and allign his, which he always, always leaves scattered around. On the bridge he rushes forward to the pickup's trunk, where he fishes out a woolen blanket, which he puts between the front seats.

When he reaches the pickup he stares at the step. It's the first time he sees the vehicle from this close. It looks impossibly high. It looks like one of the mountains surrounding them, silent and powerful, frowning down at whoever dares to challenge them.

Harry touches his shoulder and he jerks, suddenly remembering him. It's not without negotiating and a dozen different positions wordlessly offered by Harry, that he accepts the help and pushes against Harry, letting his bad leg and hip leaning on him, as he climbs up. Finally. Thank fuck.

As soon as Harry's inside he asks

"Do you have your wallet with you, Lou? ID?" Stupidly feeling the coat's pockets, where only his deer-skin gloves are, he shakes his head.

"In the crystal bowl?"

He nods. He stares at Harry rushing ahead on the bridge, then halting as if on second thought he walks bristly back and with a frown, Harry shoves the blanket on his legs. Taken aback, he can only stare at the younger man practically flying inside, a blur of movement, and he's suddenly painfully aware that Harry's been asking only yes-no questions. He wipes away the upcoming tears and breathes deeply with his nose. At least he can't wheeze with his mouth like this, he thinks sarcastically.

When Harry's back, he puts his wallet in the pickup's compartment, adjusts the crutch in the space between the seats and the bodywork so it won't be in the way when he has to change gears and flicks the key.

Later, he attempts to slide half of the blanket over Harry's thicker thighs but Harry promptly shoves it back to him. He looks sideways to see if Harry's glaring at him, waiting to find disgust and contempt, instead, Harry's eyes are fixed on the road, his whole face is still morphed into that worried frown, and he's saying something quietly. When Harry catches him staring, he doesn't sneer, like he thought, he smiles.

Looking back on Calalzo's streets, Harry resumers his murmuring.

"Sorry, 'was talking to myself. I'm taking you to my dentist, by the way. Il dottor Dal Zotto.(*) He's... I don't if he's better than others, actually, my mom's been taking me and Gem all our lives. Gem found another dentist she likes more. Mom too. I just didn't bother. But he assured me we would be alone. I'll stand guard if the nurses want to come in, so don't worry okay? He's a bit expensive, though. Shit, I don't know how much he'll charge you. Do you have your cards? Have you got cash?"

Up today, it still amuses him how Harry is so aware of money, because he was like that when soon after he moved here in Italy. He's been thinking about it recently, with this new contract his percentage has been raised a bit, and his editor's reminders that his bank's balance has tot amount of digits, otherwise he doesn't bother anymore.

He nods. He doesn't smile, though. The panic that turned him into a shivering ball in his bathroom's corner before is threatening him again, tightening his chest in a cold, most unpleasant way. Soon he won't feel like breathing anymore. A hand squeezes his thigh gently. He looks up at Harry smiling at him for a momento, then looking back ahead.

"I'm here. I'm right here." And the words shouldn't matter, they shouldn't keep the panic at bay, even if just for now. He stares at the large hand on his thigh, he can't touch, but he nods, grateful.

When they arrive, Harry phones the dentist first to make sure everything is set and asks him to come out of the back door. A greying man in his late forties or early fifties, does open the back door, and Harry squeezes his thigh once again before hopping down and circling the pickup. His side, thanks to Harry's maneuvring on the sidewalk, faces the door, so between him and the doctor it's relatively easy to climb down.

With a whispered 'i swear to god i'm going to get a lower car' from Harry, his mind wanders again on the fact that this was the first ride with Harry on his pickup. Anne usually drives him home from their dinners.

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He's faced with the harsh, unrelenting reality when he's lying on the dentist's hard reclinable armchair. The doctor prods and massages. He asks all the right questions, too. Hot packs, hot liquids, spiral-shaped massages and he nods weakly every time because, all the options. He tried every one of them already.

The doctor frowns, apologetic, and slowly picks up the latex gloves from the tray.

"Cerchero di fare il piu piano possibile... em... Louis?"(SS)

He nods quickly, then shakes his head, he doesn't want slow. He makes a quick pulling motion with his hands to emphasize. The doctor's frown deepens.

"Oh. Come desidera."(#)

He sees the outline of Harry's arm coming from the opposite side of the doctor's, and it looks like Harry's hand is about to squeeze his but he shakes his head quickly. Like hell he'll let Harry see him like this. Not if he has a saying in the matter.

"Lou."

Harry mutters beside him, and he doesn't want to notice the sadness in the voice. He's not doing this with Harry right there.

Doctor Dal Zotto takes pity of his frantic shaking and mutters.

"E' meglio se aspetti fuori un minuto, 'Arry. Non e un bel vedere, del resto."(**) His tone neutral, professional. He likes him already. Only after the door clicks shut, he braces himself for it.

His eyes meet the doctor's above the sterile mask and he nods.

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Harry doesn't have sex with him for three weeks, after 'The jaw incident', as he labeled the memory in his head, which he discreetly brings out every now and then to tell himself how a cripple he is while he wanks. Because, if that wasn't clear enough, Harry doesn't respond to his signals for three whole weeks. He's pretty sure he's having a serious case of blue balls, most of the times he wanks he doesn't come or he comes in thin trails in the shower and it's throughly pathetic how much he's come to need Harry's touch to be brought off.

He's known all this since last summer actually, when they all went back to the UK. But, of course, he at his mom's and Harry, Anne and Gemma in Scotland for a bit of home sightseeing and a summer exam Anne had to take for work.

That month taught him many, many things. But even the best of online porn wasn't up to comparison for Harry. In any way. But he weathered through it, simply because Harry wasn't in the vicinity, and after a while, his body finally got it, and he stopped popping boners after every curls-and-green-eyes-filled dream.

Oh, and it must be his imagination or something, but during those three wretched weeks, his meals are softer. The meat, the pies, the croquettes, everything somewhat tastes softer.

Things move on when one day, when he attempts the usual signal, taking Harry's car keys out of the man's coat and putting them in the crystal bowl, he sees Harry following the movement, like usual, and he almost sighs at the resigned thought of not getting much sleep tonight either, when suddenly Harry smiles slightly, and nods towards the bedroom.

It takes all of his willpower not to make a very short, very manly happy dance right then and there. It's nobody business when he enters the bathroom to make sure he's clean and bumps his fist in the air.

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He's wrong. He's not going to sleep tonight. He's going to die.

It's been so long since Harry has last eaten him out that he comes faster than he used to come at sixteen, he's ninety-nine percent sure of that.

Harry wanks and comes on his bum, while he is still trying to smother himself in the pillow from the embarasment, and Harry massages his buttcheeks and his thighs with a mixture of come and salive, while he licks the bumps of his spine because Harry wants to kill him.

Tonight. This very night. He won't see the morning sun, he will die right here, perfectly content and fucked out.

But because Harry wants to kill him twice, apparently, because once isn't enough, he carefully turns him around (he is still appalled by how the fuck Harry maneuvres his bad leg so it doesn't twitch and hurt like hell, always, while he still wakes up in the morning crying out all the gods' names because his own fucking body can't remember how to turn itself without jutting his bad leg in the wrong way) and toys with his cock, still oversensitive.

After a session of extremely manly high-pitched mewls, he is, thank god, hard again, and Harry rolls a condom on himself. That's when he realizes that Harry said just a few words. Okay, Harry was eating him out, he thinks he got that, but...

He never asks, he did the first time, then Harry magically got it, and then the younger man even more magically took a step ahead, two steps ahead and got them in the right direction, and keeping on it Harry found out how to unleash he dirty secret.

But today... He doesn't want to think that he's disappointed... but... maybe if...

"Ha-Haz." his spluttering whisper bounds back on the walls and back again, resounding, as Harry freezes above his pelvic while squeezing a bit of lube on his open palm. The scene is an aphorism in itself, Harry pouring lube after he ate him out throughly, careful, always so careful, even though he probably knows Louis will let him fuck him like that, immediately after, and gladly so.

He mentally slaps himself, because the nickname is a word for the daylight, not for their nights. But it does the job, Harry zeroes on him, his stare is so intense it's almost creepy.

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He opens his mouth again, wider, glad for the splint. Then taps his own hip quickly with his shaking hand.

Tell me I'm a cripple.

He opens his mouth again, ugly, the splint must be showing from the angle Harry is looking at him.

Tell me I can't even kiss. Tell me I'm a cripple.

Harry's face crumple in something he refuses to recognize. His stupidly large hand, lube-free, comes to touch his cheek, where his jaw connects with the the rest of the skull, it's warm to the touch, the fingertips slightly less and there's a tiny smudge of ink on the inside of his middle finger.

He starts breathing erratically, something cold sizzling in his chest.

No no no no, what is Harry doing-!

He feels himself softening a bit in reaction, and Harry must feel it too, since his erection is resting against Harry's lean abs. Harry's face hardens instantly and he is scared he angered him, he's scared Harry will storm out and never come back, he's always scared of that. Instead, Harry pulls at his cock quickly, disapprovingly, and he unabashedly writhes on the bed, the mix of hurt and pleasure making his skin break out in goosebumps.

"You're just a cripple who's not even capable of staying hard for two fucking seconds."

Oh yes, god yes. Harry lubes himself hastily and just as hastily breaches the rim of muscles. He can't help keening happily at the sensation, he throws his head on the side and his hands on the hem of the pillow. When Harry bites his collarbone and pushes in a bit at the same time, that's when he starts getting loud.

"You can't make your jaw work properly. How miserable is that?"

Yes yesyes, like that. His thoughts thicken in the mist, now heavy in his mind. There's only Harry here.

"You're a fucking statistics, you'll be all your life, get real already and stop daydreaming."

God, it's so good, why is it so good with Harry? Yes. like that. fuck.

Harry. Harry HarryHarry. He stops himself from saying the name out loud before he can spill something else. Harry's staring at him from above when he dares opening his eyes, his rhytmical motion is absolutely hypnotizing. He can't look away. Doesn't want to.

Harry's pauses, buried as deep as he can go inside of him, and he loves it, loves the stretch, and he cries out at the sight of Harry slowly making his good leg come up to his shoulder. Goddamn that's so hot. The ache mixes with a waterfall of pleasure, his body is heavy, his thoughts are blurried and, and- god.

When Harry pumps back in, mouth open and slack, so red, his cheeks rosy, his eyes pearly-wet and his mane of curls swaying with him, he is a second from blurting out everything.

Harry attaches himself to his chest, trailing upwards, the angle is too sharp so he can't reach Louis' neck comfortably, though.

"You're lame and you'll always be." says Harry squeezing his ass and it's too much. In the thick fog a roaring wave of pleasure raises his skin in goosebumps again, from head to toe, and threatens to push his heart out of his ribcage because there's no room there anymore, he supposes, there's just this bundle of things he's feeling.

He opens his eyes just when Harry's coming on his leg. his bad leg.

Oh god. oh god. Harry. You're everything. Everything. I'll give you everything. Take it. Take it.

I love you so much.

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(*) doctor Dal Zotto

(SS) I'll try to be as delicate as possible, Mister..

(#) As you wish

(**) It's better if you wait outside, it's not a nice thing to witness anyway

## All the doors must be locked

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In Harry's defence, he always locks the door when he comes in and he never opens to anyone but his sister Gemma, the only one not having a copy of the keys.

He's a very nice young man, polite and kind. A people-pleaser. That's why, when Jay interceded for him to Harry, the cherubic-looking young man didn't think twice about coming to the infamous lake house and helping out.

That's how he is. Calm, kind and polite.

After 'The Fainting Incident' (yes, there's a label for that too), when Jay, half in hysterics, had to send Anne and a paramedic in to check, she hammered him about this bright (but very quiet Louis, very quiet, and discreet, too, very discreet), bilingual boy, Anne's son, and how Harry had apparently taken a liking to cleaning the house and cooking for Anne, since Gemma was moving in with her boyfriend and Harry was working on his final paper, so he didn't have a tight schedule and let's say it, he didn't have much to do. And he could come to the Lake house to clean and cook, and then he would leave.

Very quiet, Louis, he won't bother you.

Turned out. He was.

Quiet, polite and sursprisingly, capable of withstanding his wrecked body and even more wrecked mind.

Harry seems to know his every nick and corner by now, and he, true to his principle, is well-content with what he picks up about Harry, what he sees in the premises of his house, and of course, with what Harry talks about when they sit around and have a chat, when he isn't working and thus he doesn't need to be so 'very quiet'.

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It's a quiet morning. In the process of refining the mountain's cursed spring story, he got himself a cuppa. Harry makes sure he never runs out of tea while he's at the lake house, and he lets himself take the first slurp while enjoying Harry's naked back and legs.

The boy loves to cook with as little clothing on as possible, apart from the ever-present apron he got Harry in the beginning as a joke. He doesn't know if it's a personal preference or a religion, but the lake house's heating system is top of the category, floor heating or stove, and he certaintly doesn't mind the sight, so he happily refrains from even remotely reprimanding the younger man about it.

Coming back to the living room and his menacingly waiting laptop, he spots a person, right there in the entryway. It takes him a few moments to recognize him. Zayn.

Zayn Malik is the general admin of the International Camping site at the opposite shore of the lake. Half-Pakistani, half-British, he instantly befriended Harry as soon as he heard about the bilingual boy, when he arrived, a few years back.

He's always thought Zayn looked gorgeous. He saw him all the times he came to pick Harry up from the lake house. Then the duo would go out together clubbing, and he would stay in, proud that he held a stranger's gaze for tot seconds.

Now, seeing Zayn from a couple meters of distance, he looks godly gorgeous. Nothing that makes his chest hurt, like with Harry, but still. Fuck.

After the fitfh, deafening heartbeat, his body-memory takes hold and he knows what he has to do and where he has to go.

He doesn't swallow saliva, he knows he'll choke if he does, so he fights the urge and puts the tea down. He spills a lot from how much he's shaking but he manages to safely place the cup on the entryway table.

Kudos. Kudos for him right now. Way to go Tommo.

There's a voice he doesn't recognize but he doesn't care.

Bath. Water. Floor. In this order. He can do this.

As he turns around, he sees the exact moment Harry comes to stand on the kitchen's threshhold. In just his boxers and the apron. God, he loves this man so much.

Harry's face crumples from curiosity to a grimace of rage as he takes account of the man standing past Louis' back.

"THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" bellows Harry and it's so loud, it's the loudest he's ever heard him, louder than the fireworks on the last day of the town's festival.

His heart leaps in his chest and plummets. His legs threaten to turn into jelly, but he keeps a tight grip on the crutch and tells himself to put one foot after the other. He can do this.

"Door wasn't locked..." he hears a voice behind him.

"AND WHO THE FUCK GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO COME IN?!"

Harry's bellow bounce off the walls and into his ribcage and all he can think is that he has now evidence that even Harry, docile, kind, polite Harry can get furious like any other human being under the sun.

He leans on his crutch as he fights against the shaking and the closing in sensation to lock himself in a tiny, tiny space for the rest of his life.

His vision is blurried. He's locking the bathroom door. Everything's blurry again, then he's opening the shower's water. Outside, the voices' volume dim.

But it's alright now.

He doesn't have to worry about a thing.

Harry's here.

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He doesn't know how much time later, he listens to Harry's apologise through the bathroom door.

What Harry says is right. He told Louis to (please) unlock the bridge and the door, he needed some rosemary for what he was cooking. There's a small bush of rosemary, at the beginning of the bridge. He did. He unlocked the bridge and the door.

Harry forgot to get the rosemary. He forgot that the passage to the house was wide open.

He waits after the fifth time Harry begs for forgiveness, and he opens the shower's water again, hoping Harry will get it.

It's okay. I understand. I have to be alone now.

"Lou... I'm so sorry. Are you- Can you forgive me?"

He closes the water. Waits five seconds, then opens it again.

Yes. Don't worry.

The 'thank you' that comes from the door sounds so relieved, his mood lifts a bit just by hearing it. At least Harry isn't angry with him. He doesn't know why he and Harry click so smoothly, but they do, and he's eternally glad for it.

.

.

.

.

It eats at him for days on end, that Zayn saw him like that. He saw the panic.

He must have narrated the juicy story to all the Cadores in record time after Harry showed him out.

But at least they didn't see. They didn't see this house, which is slowly becoming his home, and they didn't see him, his expression, the crutch, the shaking.

.

.

I'm not agoraphobic.

He types on the phone, and Harry freezes reading it from his position by the glass walls, where he's cleaning the transparent panels. He almost feels Harry looking up slowly, cleaning product and rag in his hands, but he resolutely keeps on staring at his phone. The words in his mind, for the current story he's writing, swim together for a moment, then realign.

I didn't panic. I just didn't know what to do.

He types the last sentence miraculously without shaking, wondering if Harry believes at least some of it. It sounded stupid in his head and it looks stupidier on the screen.

Harry leaves the tools on the floor and motions for him to sit back on his work armchair, while Harry sits on the edge of the low table, beside the laptop. He doesn't bother being worried about his work, Harry won't spy.

At first, Harry doesn't say anything. He extends his hand in invitation. He imitates the gesture and Harry takes his and starts stroking it, unknotting the points of tension until his hand starts warming up. The younger man sits there, silent, he doesn't stare at him, he stares at the hand he's caressing with both of his, a little smile on his face. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what this is.

It was so sudden. I don't know him. I don't hate him or anything. I just don't know him. It was so sudden. That's it.

He types furiously with his free hand, and at least it's the truth. Harry looks at him, searches for something in his face, then opens his arms, pleadingly.

What, is he supposed to sit on the table? Straddle Harry's lap on the table? He wants to, of course he wants to, but he can't do that! He obviously cannot do that!

Confused, he just leans back into the couch and imitates Harry's gesture weakily, wondering if this is the right thing to do or whether he'll be laughed at.

It is, Harry smiles and crawls on the couch, legs around his good one, leaving his bad one completely free, and hugs him. Like, honest-to-god koala-style wraps himself around Louis, legs and arms, and rests his chin on his shoulder. There are Harrry's hood and his unruly curls in his mouth for a moment, but he breathes around them, and it's all right. Harry's hair smells like spices and cleaning products.

After an initial moment of confusion about the situation in general, he starts to appreciate the warmth. Harry's nice, and warm.

A chuckle. "Geez, you're so thin, Lou, nothing much to hug." says the young man, squeezing his back a bit. Mirth is easily readable in his tone, but he knows he's not a great hugger.

Sorry.

he whispers, hating how the 'r' rolls off with too much saliva.

"Mh-hm. It's fine."

He tries to smother the warmth in his chest and belly at Harry's languid tone.

Then the curly starts to talk. He talks about work and how much he's nervous about it, about his beloved pickup, his mom's work, the leaking shower at home, his new taste in shampoo (green fruits) and other random little things.

After a while, he notices long fingers scratching the back of his head lightly, and he finds he doesn't mind one bit.

After a while again, he notices his own hands have, seemingly by their own, traveled to the small of Harry's back and resting there. On the opposite side of the torso are the ferns. He knows because even if he can't touch Harry's body, he mapped it out squared centimeter per squared centimeter in his mind.

He likes this position, he decides. He hopes that Harry won't notice if he slides his hands up and down where they're resting, just a bit, just to stretch his fingers. Harry has a completely different body-frame than him, and he has never been only just curious about it, he's utterly fascinated.

He notices that Harry's grown silent, and after a while he notices a semi hardness against his belly, and he's suddenly reminded about his own lower region and..... Fuck, too late.

Sorry.

he splutters quickly.

"No, no, it's all right! Sorry, I'm..." Harry scrambles in a sitting position, he disloges his face from where it was leisurely nestled, and the air rushing between them again makes him feel suddenly cold. He doesn't like Harry in this position much. He liked the previous one better.

From his peripheral vision, he sees that his hand has gone to circle Harry's bicept. He lowers it faster than he can draw the next breath. Harry's sleeves are up to his elbows so it's not touching, he reminds himself. He's happy with these memories already, he'll be thrilled to replay them again in his mind when Harry leaves after his chores.

He looks up to find Harry openly staring at him, and then the most fascinating thing occurs, he sees Harry's pupils dilating right in front of him.

And he can't help but marvel because, woah, is he doing that? To Harry's body? Is Harry seriously reacting to him like that?

A sudden want surges in him. He wants Harry to kiss him, to bite, to devour him. And since he's pretty sure he thankfully didn't blurt out anything this time, Harry must read be reading his thoughts because he attacks his neck like he's desperate for it.

The next few minutes are a bundle of bites and licking and sucking, groans and moans and more biting, and tightening pants. He loves the marks, the hickeys. It's another dirty little secret of his. Even if he has nobody to show them to, he likes having a reminder of the times Harry held him. That someone is having pleasure with his body, even if that someone is paid and so disgusted by him in reality that a signal is needed.

But Harry is truly hard, he's grown so as they were hugging. He saw his pathetic display the other day in front of his friend Zayn, and he's sucking on what little of collarbone appearing from his pullover nonetheless.

Maybe it's been a while for Harry too, he muses. Maybe Harry hasn't found someone to hook up with, the last time he went out.

The sense of absurdity, in reaction to such a thought, is cut off as Harry rises himself and lowers his torso slowly, causing their erections to rub against each other between four layers of fabric. It's not much but it's brilliant, it's already this brilliant. His breath gets caught in his throat with the force of the wantwantwant within him. He can't wait to be closer.

Harry palms him through his pants and stares at him as he squeezes. He moans pleadingly in reply as a barrel of feelings washes in him all at once.

It's daylight, Harry shouldn't be like this, he shouldn't be turned on, he shouldn't want him. And he shouldn't accept the fact that he can be seen so clearly. The sky's grey but the curtains are all open, so every single disgusting detail of his body can be seen. Harry squeezes again, his breath hot against the light stinging of a spot he sucked and licked on his neck and the pressure is so welcomed he stops giving fucks.

This is his home, it's daylight yes, but this is home, and he's loud and he wants this man to undo him so much, so much it hurts.

He is in his boxers and sweats, home clothes, so it's a quick thing. He waits as Harry unzips his ridiculous, painted-on jeans, scrambles upright to take them down to his ankles and shimmies out of them and takes his pants off too and finally he sits back on the couch.

In the meantime, he desperately wants to have one of those marks the judges uses for dives or something like that, he just saw Harry literally taking his pants down and freeing his erection, and there must be something sick in his head, but it's the hottest sight he's seen, coming after seeing Harry's naked and pounding into him, of fucking course.

He has no idea how and why but Harry's cock is leaking already, and he uses the clear liquid to slick himself a bit before wrapping his hand around them both. The sensation is glorious.

He remembers Harry wanking them both on one of their first times, his big hand filling one of his fantasies already at the time.

Panting loudly, he hastily shoves his hands in the crease between the pillows and the back of the couch, and Harry rewards him by lapping at his neck again.

He looks at the clear, white of the ceiling and again he's reminded of the fact that they're doing this in the middle of the day, in a living room with glass walls facing a lake, clothed except for their groins and their thighs. Either they fell into one of his fantasies, in this case he's dreaming, or Harry is so horny and he must sweat it out somehow. In any case, he is more than happy to be here in this exact moment.

His own dick stings painfully with a particularly tight stroke and, frustrated at his own body, he whines around his splint, causing Harry to lean back and stare.

He whines quietly again, looking down at himself. Words flee him, the same words he lives on, are nothing against Harry. He's defenseless in front of this man.

Looking up, he finds that Harry's frowning. Before he starts to panic, though, he speaks.

"Can't we.... without. This once?" He poses it as a question but the hope is evident in his green eyes. Harry's other hand comes to circle his elbow since his own hands are safely tucked in the couch. Although useless, the loss of contact on his semi makes him want to protest.

Since it's the first time Harry asks, he mentally fumbles to find a reason to have enough pleasure to orgasm. He licks his splint in his mouth and he looks at his bad leg twitching so much already. He looks at their groins and there's that, in plain sight, the difference between them. Harry's the only one providing pre-come, while his own semi-hard has a few pearls of liquid on the cockhead.

He instantly feels flames of heat rise to his cheeks.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know if he can do it.

He shakes his head, because what's coming out of his mouth is only a dragged-out, helpless whine.

Harry's brief frown and puckered lips breaks something in him and when the curly-haired man tucks himself in the curve of his neck, he thinks 'this is it', this is when Harry tells him to bring himself off from now onward, alone, he's not going to do this insane shit anymore, fuck his twisted mind, he's a freak anyway.

"Are you so useless you have to be told when to get off? Just like an old man. What are you, ninety?"

He feels his cock fattening up immediately and he shuts his eyes at the rush of pleasure in his guts. He keens so loudly, in gratitude, that he hopes whatever god is up there hears him.

Please.

"You're useless, don't act like you're sitting on a throne, you're a nobody. You look at everyone from your safe haven like you're superior but you're not, you're like everybody else. No, you're less than everybody else."

Harry's hand tightens on both of them and he feels the perfect scratch of a nail on his cockhead, and it's like a big portion of his sanity spurts out next. The heat in his guts spins at the rythym of his foggy mind as Harry sets a quick, tight pace.

He can't put thought into a logical sequence anymore. Day or night, he doesn't know and he doesn't care. There are only Harry's voice and the truthful words the man says in his ear.

Please.

"Always thinking about yourself like the snob you are, locked up in your cosy little castle like a king. We're not things that you can study and judge. Get down to earth."

He splutters pleadings but what for, he doesn't know anymore. He feels small trickles of heat on his cheeks but they're distant. The only things that still make sense in his blurry mind are Harry's words and the tight heat reeeling out of his body from a spot deep low in his belly.

Please.

"You're nothing special. You're nothing but a useless, a helpless waste of a man."

He's still coming when he opens his eyes. The tears are falling down his sweater instead of down his bed's pillow, for once.

Once the fog rises a bit he sees Harry coming on his own softening cock, mixing the two of them together. It's daylight. Everything comes back to him.

Looking down at his groin, he thinks about he and Harry. When one ends and the other begins, it's impossible to determine anymore.

Please...

.

.

.

.

## My call to you

It's been roughly a year since the last time he had such a strong nightmare.

Surely before Harry finished all his exams and became a regular- the regular visitor in this house. A bit longer than a year.

In the darkness, only his ragged breaths can be heard.

The monster that's eating at his leg squints at him from its black mass.

Wicked, intelligent yellow eyes seem to grin before the black, foggy thing crawls on his good leg too.

He doesn't scream. He can't. He's completely paralyzed by terror.

The thing starts to gnaw the kneecap and that's when the pain starts. Piercing, from a unique focus in his bad leg it's mirrored in his good one and then spreads out like wild fire. His legs are engulfed in black fog, miriads of tiny yellow slits squinting at him, laughing, grinning, getting ready for the feast.

He opens his eyes and he's in the hallway, his legs are twitching so badly when he places a hand on a thigh, the hand shakes along with the muscles.

He doesn't know why but his phone lies a dozen centimeters away from him. It should be on his bedside table, ready to wake him up at an impossible eight and a half, although it usually chimes when he's already brushing his teeth, but he likes to hope, the alarm clock acts more like a good luck charm by now.

If this is still a dream, he can, like, call reality and wake himself up. Isn't that how it goes?

He crawls towards the device, crying out from the pain in his legs. The screen comes alive under his touch and he calls the first number on speed-dial. It rings. The second number. It rings. He's about to try the third one when someone answers.

"Louis?"

Wake up! Wake up wakeupwakeupwakeup-

"Louis? What is it, where are you?"

Wake up, please, wake up.

"Lou?! Lou, can you hear me?" Strange. In a dream he should call himself by his name. He doesn't call himself Lou. He knows someone who calls him that, though.

Harry?

"Lou what's wrong, where are you?"

Wake me up please wake me up it hurts please

"Are you home? I'm going there now, are you home? Lou?"

please

"Shi-" the line is cut off and he opens his eyes, hoping it's morning so he can see the dawn from the living room and ask himself what a man like himself is still doing here, in this world. Slowly, everything comes back to him. His mom, his sisters, his books and Harry.

Harry.

The last calls page mocks him from the lit up screen. There's a string of 'mom' calls and then 'Harry'. Wasn't that his voice? Is this not a dream? Did he just call Harry? What did Harry say, that he's going to his house? Here, now? It's not the middle of the night, is it? His surroundings are all dark. ...Fuck.

Fuck.

Spare crutch.... Spare crutch!

He crawls to the entryway table and taps on the floor beneath the table legs, the panel gives out and he removes it and fishes out his crutch. He's careful to relocate the panel as not to trip on it like he did once and scrambles to a somewhat upright position.

He walks to the door, mindful of his good leg, since now it's the bad one, the foggy black bastard ate it too, fuck, he'll have to do something about that. But not now.

Since he's leaning on it, his bad leg burns in discomfort but he tells himself to suck it up because Harry's driving here in the middle of the night for nothing, for him, for less than nothing, and Harry's coming here.

He has to stop him. He'll walk to the other side of town, where the Styles live, if he has to, and he will. This is his fault. He will.

The bridge is covered by a thin layer of ice, so, naturally, he collapses at the first step. He tries to shield himself with his arm, but since the crutch is in the other hand, since the good leg is the bad leg now, he extends the arm with the crutch and disorderly falls on it.

In short, it fucking hurts.

He doesn't want to dwell on the sound he just heard, too, it's nothing important. He has to get to Harry, damn it.

With the aid of the bridge's handrail he hauls himself forward, reveling in feeling his bad leg twitching and spasming. That's good, that's right. Burn in hell. It's all his leg's fault. Everything. It should just rot and go to hell and stop making everything so damn difficult.

He's halfway across the bridge, already imagining himself walking around town, searching for the Styles' civic number, when a car rumbles at the end of the bridge. He's blinded by the lights, then a silhouette runs to him. It's big and maybe curly and Louis wants it to go away. Get the fuck off his bridge, he has to reach Harry.

"Louis! Louis oh my god what have you done?!" comes Harry's voice.

Harry.

"Let's get you inside. What happened? Did someone break in? I'll call the police, just let me-"

What- No. No police, no hospital.

"Louis.."

No police. No hospital. No nobody. Nobody. Go away, everyone go away.

"Lou..."

.

.

.

The next time he wakes up, he hurts absolutely fucking everywhere. Well not exactly everywhere. Miraculously, and fucking ironically, his head is not waging war against him, like it usually does after a nightmare.

God, this was one one hell of a nightmare. He must be spasming everywhere. He'll have to use body lotion for hours and he hates his body lotion, it smells like hospital.

He opens his eyes and Harry blinks frantically in front of him. He's in a grey, big sweater and his hair looks electrocuted without any headband or headscarf.

"Lou! Finally!" The next second it all comes back to him. He tries to sit up but Harry prevents it and holds out a glass of water which he takes gratefully.

"Okay. Before you say anything, please let me finish. And please don't get up. All right?"

He breathes out an 'okay' because Harry's here and he can't not agree. It's Harry after all.

"There is a person waiting outside. He's a paramedic, his name's Liam. He's Zayn's boyfriend, you know. We went out together a couple of times and he gave me his number, just in case. He said he won't come in unless you agree, but he told me to check all this bunch of stuff... And... Lou, I don't know if I can do it properly. Can I let him in to check on you?"

Searching for an answer, he looks around. His home's dark except for the night-light at the base of the wall. He's lying on the living room's couch. To let a stranger in his house...

"He's alone, I swear. He won't take you anywhere. He'll just come in, check on you, tell us what to do and go home. That's it."

When he meets Harry's eyes, he sees Harry didn't notice it. 'Us' he said. Why he said 'us', shouldn't it be 'you'?

Spasming and hurting all over, he breathes out an okay and he hopes Harry will get up and get the door so he can stretch, but the younger man keeps his position sitting beside him and fishes out his cellphone. He types something and a few seconds later, a soft-looking young man whispers himself in.

"Permesso."(*) he says. And okay, polite. He can do that.

"Prego."(&) he croaks a whisper. And Liam first excuses himself for the intrusion and the fact that his English is not what it used to be, it's been a few years and a number of Italian girlfriends..

At Louis 'it's fine' he smiles, and his face morphs into something gentle.

He gets asked a barrel of questions, though, that is true. Most of them in Italian, a couple in English, he answers them all with monosyllabes when Liam is not looking at him, otherwise he nods or shakes his head.

His head is checked first. He seems to follow the light all right and Liam prods his skull lightly, deeming everything fine.

Then, he performs all the movements Liam asks him to and he's astounded to see that his good leg is mostly fine. His bad one is another matter. It spasms so much he can't so much as bend the knee up, only sideway. Liam says it's normal, but he'll have to apply the lotion as soon as possible and every three hours for twenty-four hours. He looks at Harry while saying this and before he can protest, Harry's nodding frantically and saying that he'll do it.

His non-crutch arm hurts, but after much prodding, Liam doesn't find it broken. He says the wrist feels weak, though. So he suggests that he might want to book an x-ray in a private clinic as soon as possible, while expertedly positioning his arm in a makeup sling. He nods and Harry types something into his phone, looking like a man with a mission.

Liam and Harry confabulate for minutes by the room's door, talking about painkillers, vitamins, herbal teas, lotions, doses and times. At last, regardless of his booking the x-ray, which he should do really as soon as possible, that was a strong suggestion from a professional Louis, Liam asks to be called the next day to see about the twitch and check up on him.

"Se per te va bene, ovviamente."(#) offers Liam at the end, after Harry has already agreed to it, looking between the two. He nods, too, and a few seconds later, they're left alone.

.

.

.

He can't believe his eyes. Harry, who is always so careful to touch his bad leg the least possible amount, he's massaging it like a professional. Honestly. All the movements and the hands' positions his old physiotherapist, at home in the UK, does.

In twenty minutes, Harry unties all the knots in his muscles and unwinds the spasm down to a mere shiver.

Of course, he doesn't dare to ask where Harry learnt that. He just doesn't. But he watches closely Harry for the whole time. The thrown-on clothes, the concentrated frown, his wild mane, the beginning of bags under his eyes despite the spark of focus in the orbs. Harry directing a private paramedic to cause as little discomfort to Louis as possible, Harry discussing medicines with Liam...

It's not right. He shouldn't be doing this. It's not Harry's problem, so why does he go to such lengths?

Of course, he'll pay Harry profusely for this. Harry was bothered because of him, it's the least he can do to, literally, repay him. But how? Will he slip the money into Harry's pockets next time they have sex? He could give it to Harry bit by bit, or raising Harry's pay altogether...

"All right." whispers Harry sitting back on the table, wiping his hands with a kleenex. When their eyes meet, Harry smiles.

"I'll see you in three hours then."

What?

What, no no no. Harry's not considering to take care of him, right? No, he can't have reduced his life to this, too. First his mom, now Harry... Absolutely no.

Shaking his head erratically, he grabs his phone from the table, opening the text messages.

"Wha-Why?"

I want my keys back.

"Lou.. Why?"

He keeps the phone up. He wants his keys back.

"Wh-What's wrong? Can't we talk about it, is it because of Liam?" And why Harry is not walking out on him already, why does he care, why does he argue to stay? He is not Harry's problem!

Please. The keys.

He doesn't look at Harry's widened eyes as the young man regards him, motionless, frozen, as if slapped.

When he moves, he looks like a zombie. Slowly, dragging-out the movement as if he truly doesn't want to, he fishes out the keys from his pants pocket, he places them in Louis' hand, he opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it, and walks out.

The door clicks shut.

He waits for the pickup's engine to roar to life before he locks the door and sets to do what he knows how to do best. Write.

.

.

.

It's been a while since he has written with pen and paper.

His hand grows tense and stiff quickly but fortunately it's not his incapacitated one - he would have never chosen pen and paper otherwise - as he pours a portion of his heart onto the white sheet.

He is worthless and Harry shouldn't bother with him. If Harry's number wasn't on speed-dial this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have woken Harry up in the middle of the night, made him rush here and agree to Louis' crazy demands. Harry should have taken revenge by taking him to the hospital, after a good scare there, he would have learnt something about not having fucking nightmares and then bother his best friend with them.

Harry's too kind to him, he shouldn't have bothered, and he shouldn't bother with coming back, after all this shit. He should accept the money and leave him to his problems, to his freaky issues.

He says this in three pages of his tiny writing style. He forgot how small his handwriting is. He fishes out the Posta Prioritaria(SS) stamps and settles down to wait for Niall.

In the meantime, there's tea to prepare.

.

Three broken teacups and several fits of frustration later, arrives Niall and he doesn't need to be begged to agree to deliver the letter himself, just because Louis asked, he says, smiling.

And he is happy because they went back to the time Niall was his only and greatest highlight of the day.

Before things got fluttery in his belly and his body was mapped out, muscle per muscle.

.

  
.

The day after, he's just booked the x-ray, Liam has come, frown at the Harry-absence, smiled at the lotion's effects and handed a couple jars of vitamins for him to take, complete with a post of instructions, for Harry, he adds. He's about to rumple the post-it and throw it away when the bell rings.

From the window he sees Harry walking steadily on the bridge, a familiar key in hand, a focused frown etched in his face and pace.

Fuck, that's Anne's copy.

Taking only his phone, he retreats to the bathroom. He knows he's being a coward but fuck if he ever denied being one.

"Louis?" comes Harry's voice from behind the door.

"Why are you hiding from me? Is this really necessary?"

An uncomfortable sensation settles in his chest. It's not longing. It's not. Several minutes later, there's an exasperated sigh at the other end of the door.

"Do you really want me to go?"

His hand clenches around his crutch. He types a message in his phone.

Why are you here?

A chime, and a second later.

"To talk about your letter. I've got it here. Together with.... the money. Look, I just want to talk, face-to-face. Please."

Defeated, he opens the door and stands there, trying not to look at Harry's face, and failing. The younger man's eyes are bloodshot and circled by a not-so faint red colour. His nose is a bit red, too. His eyes are glassy. And as he said, his hands are full of sheets of paper and orange-coloured euros.

"I-I... Look, Lou..." Clenching everything in one hand, he threads the other in his curls, nervously. Not that he doesn't like the motion, but Harry hasn't been doing that around him for a while now. For a long while, actually. He likes it, but he hasn't missed the nervousness behind it.

"I- Actually. My mom has been offered a job."

Okay. He wasn't expecting that.

"Trieste's university. A good position. They sent an e-mail months ago. She didn't tell us immediately, she said she was considering it. You haven't seen her recently because... well, she moved out. At the beginning of the academic year. She's sharing a flat with another professor, she's seeing how it goes... if she likes it. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, you know, this summer. But... Anyway, I stayed. I'm alone in the house apart from when Gemma visits to keep me company, that's why my mom hasn't barreled in here last night-er, yesterday night, because she's not at home. And I'm looking for a second job because... well, who knew house's bills were so persistent?"

Harry's smile is wrong and he never wants to see it again. More than that, last time he went there to have dinner...

Why didn't anybody tell me?

"Ah that's- err.. Mom didn't want you to think we're your friends because of your.... um... health. Me too. She also doesn't want to ask her son's best friend for help, she can't do that, her words, not mine. And I thought... I thought I pull it off until mom decides whether to come back or not, and I could get a flat if she says she won't."

He looks at the floor between them and tries not contemplate all the ways he could have helped them. How more worthless should a person be before losing the person card? He couldn't even see that. He couldn't see it in Anne's eyes, in Harry's eyes.

"Louis." He looks up. "I know I don't have any right to ask, but... The next bills are coming soon and... if I take another job I don't know how much time I will have left to come here. "

Oh no no, it's fine, he can't certainly ask Harry to come here and take care of him, Harry has his life, he should move on, he's already asked that, by the way, in the letter.

Harry looks down, dejected, as if reading his thoughts.

"So, um, since you're not a bother, a problem, or a burden as you wrote, and you may disagree but that's what I think. So... Er... this house is very big right? I mean, you live on the one floor, but.. there's another one downstairs... And the attic one upstairs.. I mean... In order not to apply to random jobs here and to keep living here in Cadore and... keep on spending time with you... Can I come live here?"

He stares at the mouth which just uttered the words. He's not sure he's not dreaming all of this.

"Momentarily." quietly adds Harry as an after-thought.

At a loss for words, he sidesteps Harry and walks into the hallway.

He takes the key from the crystal bowl, locks the door on the inside, and turns around with it. Harry stands there, clutching the letter and the money as if he's sinking and they are his last life-line. He looks a bit green too.

He extends his hand and Harry, frowning, imitates him. He lets the key fall on the bigger hand, and looks up.

Harry's smile is worth all the nightmares in the world.

.

.

.

.

(*) What you say when you enter another person's house.

(&) What you say in response to let the guest known he or she can come in. Literally it means 'you're welcome'.

(#) "If you're okay with it, obviously"

(SS) The fastest stamps for a letter.

## Reason to stay

After long consultation with Anne, by middle December he has successfully disconnected all ties between Harry and his family's house. It's incredible what a few strings can do. Anne is thrilled by her new, more challenging job and the fact that she has met an extremely dashing man in Trieste might or might not have helped in the decision to reside there for the time being.

It's with a sense of finality that Harry comes back from signing the last papers, since now he officially lives at the lake house.

He's asked his editor to contact his lawyer only for personal things, issues around himself that is. She was pleasantly surprised when he told her it wasn't for him this time, but for a friend.

I'm so glad someone's living with you, Louis. You can't imagine how relieved I am. He sounds like a very nice man. Good catch! ; )

He shakes his head, smiling at his editor's chat and promptly ignores her request for a picture of the 'lucky' housemate.

The fear that Harry would have been depressed for a while after having moved was short-lived. Anne already moved twice, apparently, trying to find a house in a reasonable distance from work.

Truth to be told, Harry is quieter for a few days. He throws half-disapproving comments on how there weren't a huge 3D TV, stereo and recorder downstairs, his floor now, but after the last bag of folded carton boxes is swallowed by the ricycling van, things start to move on.

There's Greek yogurt in the fridge. Along with many vegetables, types of meat, sweet and non-sweet potatoes, Austrian milk, puddings and so on and so forth.

The kitchen cabinets, formerly half empty, become a hymn to Masterchef and Hell's Kitchen. Pots, pans and cutlery of all sorts of dimensions and purposes, and food for breakfast and afternoon snacks. He doesn't remember the last time he had more than the three meals, but four in the afternoon yogurt-and-musli with Harry rapidly becomes a new highlight of his day.

The shower's water runs later in the evening and early in the morning, he can hear its faint sloshing sound. The central control panel indicates that his is not the only lit-up and heated floor.

Moreover, the second municipal office's e-mail he's ever received is the change of address of H. Styles, carried out in record time by his lawyer.

The first one was the confirmation of his brand-new Italian address, ten years ago.

.

.

.

In this strange dream of domesticity, he's lost all datum points.

He and Harry had a lengthy discussion - mostly because of his incapability to hold a conversation like a normal person - when Harry insisted it wouldn't have felt right to be paid to clean and cook anymore. He liked doing both things, and this was a beautiful house, and he would like to live here until Louis lets him.

Since he said that that was as long as Harry wanted or needed, Harry's argument became even more passionate, and finally he had to relent.

It is the strangest thing to live with someone he isn't paying. And Harry seems to double his efforts. He seems to hold a personal grudge on the ice, in particular. The terraces and the bridge, instead of once a day like before, are salted and scrubbed roughly every six hours.

As if he would go out and take a walk at any moment! Nonetheless, Harry carries out the task almost to the clock.

Meals become less differentiated but taste even better, if possible, and are always eaten together (whether the two things are connected or not, Louis doesn't dare to dwell).

Plus, Harry seems to have a sixth sense to navigate around his moods and he never pushes him to speak normally, like he thought Harry would, after the first time a long answer is required of him.

.

.

The only hiccup in this living arrengement is the sex.

He simply doesn't know if it's feasable anymore.

When does it become unacceptable to have sex with the person who comes at your house to do the chores on even days?

If said person starts to live with you and is not paid anymore for said chores, does that equal sex is off the table too?

It's a major cause of concern for him okay? Before Harry he was perfectly content with his non-existing sexual life. It's Harry's fault, actually, if he builds up sexual tension much faster these days.

After the first couple weeks of adjusting, the issue starts to gnaw at Louis' mind.

He decides to try it one evening.

Harry doesn't leave his keys in his coat anymore, but in the bowl along with his own set, another little thing in their new sharing situation. He tries anyway, walking into the hallway and grabbing the keys.

The metallic ring is heard because when he turnes around, Harry stares at him, frozen in place, in the motion of putting away the bread sticks. He lowers the keys back in their place and watches Harry's motionless figure, still staring.

Instantly mortified, his eyes snap at the floor then, hoping it'd swallow him up. However eventually, there is a tap on the table, and when he looks up, Harry smiles reassuringly and nods towards the bedroom.

He feels his chest expanding by the instant.

.

.

.

It's been... He doesn't even remember how long since the last time he was fucked from behind.

The first time Harry was disrupted by a sound he made, and by thinking he handled his bad leg poorly, there hasn't been a repeat of the experience since.

In all honesty, he can't recall if it was a moan of pleasure or if his leg had truly hurt at the time. But now, Harry asked first. Obviously, he scrambled in less than a second to turn around and while he tried to find a position which could agree with his leg, Harry slid a massive pillow under it, and another under his hips.

Now, as Harry fucks him in earnest, there's a constantly present, large hand sustaining his bad leg's thigh, keeping it in position at the same angle, and the pleasure is so overwhelming, sending shivers down his spine at an alarmingly fast pace, that he doesn't even mind the touch.

Harry's cock slips in and out in a symphony of slaps that reverberate oscenely in his ears, splitting him open wonderfully. His own erection is trapped between his abdomen and the pillow, and the slight ache highlights every other sensation.

"You're a failure of a recluse, you can't even live alone, you're like a kept person but more miserable. You're too lazy to even be a proper loner."

He wails loudly from his foggy haze of pleasure, as Harry's free hand rests in the middle of his back, trailing his spine and stroking his sides alternatively. He knows his body must be withering with the waves of heat pooling in his guts, but he's too gone to care. He clutches the mattress tighter as a sob escapes him.

"You can't live by yourself, can't you. You're a small, pathetic man who can't raise a finger for himself, you're useless. You survive but you don't live, like a coward, like an animal, you let life - fuck - pass you by in your hidden little burrow."

His arms quiver and his hands almost hurt from how tightly he's trying to keep himself together, but it's a lost fight. He knows that he's crying into the pillow, making a soaked mess of it, and he knows he's soaking the other pillow too, with his precome, but the sole knowledge that Harry's telling him the truth is enough to let the world where it is, outside. There's only pleasure now, building up with each of Harry's words.

He feels a mouth on his shoulder and lube dribbing down his tight testicles. The clammy hand on his bad thigh is still there.

Harry must think he is such a freak. Harry, who's so perfect... why did he lower himself to the point of fucking someone like Louis?

He feels something more acute prodding at his already abused rim, and god, is that Harry's finger? He mewls in appreciation and Harry slides the digit further in.

He feels liquid, he's not solid anymore. A human can't experience something so strong and still remain in a shape, nobody could.

He thinks he hears a muttered 'Louis' when he's coming but he's not sure, he's too busy trying not to let his own brains come out of his cock, too.

His thigh twitches in Harry's hand but it doesn't hurt so badly. A few heartbeats later he feels warm liquid all over his buttcheeks while his dick spurts the last remains of his sanity and he's hot all over again, blissful, distant, perfect.

.

.

A few minutes later, they're both as clean as the baby wipes Harry has provided since the beginning can manage. They're sweaty and in need of a quick shower, but (mostly) sperm-free.

Harry's staring at him intently from his kneeling position on the bed and he is sitting and checking his leg, when he notices the desperate-looking young man's expression.

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and Harry sighs, mumbling and squirming a bit. Harry is completely naked and he tries, and fails, not to stare at the sea of tattoos.

"Lou... You're not going to pay me for this, aren't you?" whispers Harry.

He blinks quickly, frowning, and nods. Of course he's going to pay Harry for the sex, what a silly question!

Harry scrambles to slide ahead and places his hands on Louis' knees, his whole face becoming the epitome of a plead. He gulps a couple of times before speaking.

"I don't want to be payed for this." he whispers all at once.

and.. what? What the hell? What nonsense is this man spouting?

"I don't think I can accept your money after... I just... I don't want it. Not for this."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. He always says the wrong things. He's no good at talking. He's good at writing. He grabs his phone from the bedside table and types

What do you want money for then? I'll pay you anything

Harry sighs exasperatedly at the screen.

"You don't understand. I don't want to be payed by you anymore. For anything."

What?? Why- How could- No.

Is it something he had done, something he said? Harry wants to have nothing more to do with him! What did he do?

As a cold sensation in the middle of his ribcage seizes him, his eyes dart around, stupidly searching for a clue which can explain him the cause of what's happening, as if he can find it in the rumpled linen.

"Lou, what's wrong, what are you looking for?"

Harry's voice comes from a cold place, he can feels his hands starting to shake slightly, he shakes his head to clear it and types.

What did i do wrong???

"You didn't do anything wrong, I just don't want your money."

He stare at his legs, frantically trying to understand. It's no use, he doesn't get it.

Tell me what I did I'll never do it again I promise

Wordlessly, Harry shifts forward and hugs him. He freezes. He's pretty sure this is the first time he's being hugged while he's naked.

Harry's breath tickles his shoulder and his chin is soft. It's odd to have skin-on-skin contact without it being sexual, but Harry's so warm and he smells like sweat, come and the faint balm of the baby wipes.

"You didn't do anything wrong Lou. I swear it's the truth. It's not your fault. I just... Let's just say that if you offer me money for being with you, in any way, in the future, I won't accept it. To say the truth, I'll be a bit offended. A bit a lot."

Harry leans back chuckling and strokes his damp forehead and hair, the contact searing with the intimacy behind it.

"Okay?" the younger man asks and no, it's not okay, he doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand. But he nods anyway, staring at the linen.

He stares until he hears Harry making his way downstairs.

He keeps staring.

.

.

.

.

.

## Normal relationships

Friday and Saturday, and sometimes even Sunday night, Zayn's Panda 4x4 peer out the end of the street near the bridge. With its luminescent snow chains and shining silver body, it makes a truly menacing sight. Or maybe it's just Zayn's frown whenever he spots Louis.

Every time, he waits for Harry hanging by the car's roof, uncaring of the cold, and every time he sees Harry off, equally uncaring of the cold, resulting in them staring at each other, one frowning, the other cringing with anxiety, while the curly-haired man treads across the no-man's land.

But that Saturday night, a few days after the no-money request... he suddenly realizes what that frown means.

It's an accusation.

He's keeping Harry locked here, all to himself but for work and his friends, and he's not even paying him!

He's abusing Harry's time, patience, kindness, politeness. He's making Harry do everything. Providing food, keeping the house from becoming a nest of crawling, unidentified creatures, plus bringing him off on a regular basis and with amazingly good sex.

While all he can offer are his moods, his bad leg, his useless jaw, his more useless communication skills, his stupid personality, his fears.

"You're making him stay with you. And you're not even paying him."

Zayn nods towards him, as if he sees his thoughts clouding above his head, and agrees with them. He reciprocates the gesture. He knows. He knows he's a horrible person.

.

.

.

.

One night, Harry's already sucked his brain out of his cock once, but he doesn't deem it enough, to take Louis apart like that, no, he wants to fuck his thigh too apparently.

Harry rubs his red-shaded erection against his good leg's thick thigh, muttering how worthless Louis is, while his cock splutters creamy-coloured drops at his words, and he doesn't realizes he whispers it at first.

Selfish.

Of course even if he whispered, the word comes out a tangled 'ssf' sound, but Harry surprises him a moment later.

"You're a selfish bastard, you want everything for yourself."

comes Harry's voice near his chest and he keens loudly in reaction. Too embarassed, he swings one arm over his eyes, hand grabbing the other arm, swung over his pillow, clutching the mattress.

Lock up.

Harry stops. God, he thinks, now he's done it. He doesn't even care about how he fucked up the 'k' and 'p' because Harry won't say it and things will get from hot and bothered to extremely awkward very quick. But fuck, he needs Harry and he needs Harry to say it.

He can feels Harry's hard, warm dick against his thigh, pressed by his slightly less warm hand. He moves, and slides his thigh forward tentatively. It's a miniscule movement, could pass for a twitch. But he sets them in motion again. Harry moans softly, like he usually does, and keeps on rubbing against him.

"You're locking me up here, inside a box, you lock up everything you touch because you are a greedy, selfish worthless excuse of a man."

come the words and he can't look because of his arm but he feels Harry's damp breath on his chest. He said it, Harry's said it, the truth is out there, this piece of truth too. God, it's so satisfying to hear it out loud.

His skin is in flames, his cock twitches slightly with the suddeness of a second orgasm, making his head swim. He's burning, the fog in his mind and every tendon in his body.

He comes down bits and pieces, but when he removes his arm he instantly wishes he didn't.

His brains officially close up shop when Harry gathers a bit of his come and smears it on his thigh as lube. Stifling in a groan is impossible at this point. He slides in sync with Harry's hand and after a minute, he's rewarded by Harry's choked grunt and sagging body.

He's always admired Harry for that, for coming by shaking and panting softly, and sagging a bit. There's something intimate in that, it speaks of something small and delicate but incredibly powerful just beneath the surface. Harry's not a whiny mess like him. And he doesn't cry.

He wipes his tears with the back of his hand and readjusts his splint.

Without thinking, he stretches his legs when suddenly the spasm sizes him. Fuck!

He jolts to sit up and clutches his knee as Harry comes out of the bathroom with wipes and the extra-soft tiny towel he bought.

"Lou!" he exclaims, bolting onto the bed. Harry kneels and grabs his wrist and palms his calf at the same time.

"Lou, no, I've got you, let me do it."

He shakes his head minutely and quickly. No, Harry's indulged him enough today, more than enough. He can go now, he finished his duties.

"Stop that, you're hurting yourself!" shouts Harry, then lower. "I want to do it."

The hand that's resting on his calf strokes a line of tension and the relief is so immediate, a whimper escapes him as he sag to the side. Harry seizes the moment and bats his hand away and starts massaging him like there's no tomorrow.

Harry's hands are mostly dry but he's so sweaty the motion turns out smoothly enough not to be on the other side of comfort. Harry works silently, with his whole hands, fingertips, knuckles and metacarps, like the doctor explained to Louis years ago. He gave up massaging himself in a few months. He hated his leg, he didn't want to fucking comfort it, he wanted to punish it.

Harry though.. He's kneeling between his legs, and this thing, this focused, expertly passion he's pouring in his bad leg, resounds strangely with something inside his chest.

They're both naked and covered in sticky, quickly-drying come and Harry's massaging his bad leg like it's his job, it's always been. It's oddly intimate.

He tries to lean back and not get in the way but the relief of his knots being slowly put to rest for the time being is so strong he sags forward naturally. Careful not to touch Harry, he bites back moans of relief, not wanting to disgust the curly-haired man further.

Harry keeps working on his leg even when he shyes away, saying that it has to be carried on for at least fifteen minutes. He knows that, but he feels bad for prolonging Harry's duties at the same time. When Harry's finished, he apologizes for having left him itchy with dry come and Harry almost shoulders him into the shower, since his leg is always stupidly weak right after a massage, boneless.

Afterwards, Harry watches him walking out, circling the bed and getting into his boxers with a satisfied tiny smile, and only then he says his good night.

.

.

.

After the christmas holidays, Harry returns while he's taking his tea from the kitchen to the living room. They meet in the hallway, or rather, he's in the hallway as Harry swings the door open and screams "I'M HOOOOOME!".

After the initial shock, his happiness wins, he sets the mug ont he table, grins and waves.

Hi. Welcome back.

Harry's responding grin could light up the Dolomites for months. He quickly discards his boots and coats and runs the few meters that separate them. He leans on his crutch and braces himself for whatever's coming next, but Harry surprises him again - this man, really - by stopping right in front of him, leaning his leg towards him bad one and sliding his bigger hand to the small of his back, right on the dip before the curve of his bum.

Harry's grin loses its edges and it turns into something gentler, questioning.

He stares at his reflection in the green eyes, and just as he starts to sag, Harry hugs him properly.

It's probably not the case, but he finds Harry to be taller and bigger than the last time he saw him.

"Happy new year." says Harry, and even though they exchanged wishes on NYE, he smiles and whispers it back.

Happy new year. Welcome back.

His cheeks warm up instantly, he didn't mean to say so many words, but Harry squeezes him lightly, stroking his hair and his back, and starts rambling about Holmes Chapel, the weather there, the snow, the weather here, how he got a new assignment - he's going to translate the Ministry of Study and Research's website into English, how cool is that? - and he also heard from Marco, his ex-neighbor, he talked about him to Louis before, right?, they're gonna meet up in the center later, he missed Calalzo, actually-

He's happy for him, he steps back and Harry lets him. He fishes out his phone from his pocket and types.

Good for you. You deserve everything. They said it's going to snow again, so be careful.

Harry chuckles at the text.

"No, I'm not going now. Tomorrow maybe, or some other day. I just got here." Harry shrugs, but he frowns at the carefree smile. He doesn't want to come between Harry and his boyfriend. He types

Won't your boyfriend be upset?

Harry's reaction consists in frowning and laughing at the same time.

"What? He's not my boyfriend, what makes you think he is? And.. he can't be my boyfriend, I'm with you." the words spiral in his mind so rapidly, he fails to pins them down and find a sense to them.

I don't want to come between you and your relationship.

"What relationship? There's no relationship. There is... us, right? I'm with you."

He doesn't understand.

You aren't seeing anybody else?

"Of course I'm not, this is exclusive isn't it?"

For me yes, but not for you. You're free to do what you like.

Harry shakes his head, frustrated. He looks angry now, and it's his fault. Harry was cheerful and smiling just a moment ago and he made him angry so quickly, what a nice way to welcome your best friend from a international travel. He can't help the feeling of dread and guilt in his guts.

"What do you mean?" asks Harry scowling. He hurries to type.

When you go out with Zayn and Liam. You don't go with other guys?

"No! Fuck no! We just drink and chat, what the hell do you think we do?"

Drink, chat, have fun, hook up with nice boys.

"Fu- Louis! Seriously? Do you think I'm that kind of guy? Why would you think that?"

Because I didn't know you thought this was exclusive!

"Of course it is. You aren't seeing anybody else and I'd be an heartless bastard to do that to you!"

But this isn't a normal relationship.

"Normal? Look, I know that you don't want to put a label on this, I get it, but... You're here and we are... Do you mean you want that? Me sleeping with someone else?"

Harry's desperate look is enough to make him cringe but he grits his teeth and tries to explain himself.

I just want you to have an healthy relationship and someone by your side you want to stay with.

"The fuck, an healthy relationship? What if I think this is healthy enough to stay?"

It's not! I can't even talk to you like normal people! He wiggles his phone screen in front of him and raises his eyebrow, to emphasize. Harry scoffs and glares.

"Normal people? Because all the other couples? Poeple who stay with non-hearing people, mute or deaf people, people who stay with mutilated veterans, who stay with their parners after car accidents, in a delibitating disease, what about those? ARE THOSE NORMAL RELATIONSHIPS?" bellows Harry, his cheeks flushed.

Louis frowns and types furiously.

I can't even kiss you properly!

Harry freezes at that. See? Harry is better off with someone else, someone who can kiss him at least, before he blurts out... words he won't be able to take back.

"I've always.." mutters Harry "wondered about that, actually."

Huh?

"Can't we try, though?" What? Has Harry lost his mind?

Are you out of your mind? he types. Harry frowns at that, hurt.

"Do you.. not want to kiss me?" It's his turn to scoff now. What the actual hell with such a stupid question...

Of course I want! Won't you find it disgusting though?

Harry sighs, relieved, before regarding him again.

"Do I look disgusted when we eat together?"

He tries not to scowl, but fails. No, Harry doesn't. But..

Sighing again, Harry steps forward and slowly raises a finger to his lips. Staring at the taller man, he opens his mouth slowly, when, out of the blue, Harry inserts his fingers and takes the splint off. Too late, he closes his mouth in reaction. Before he can retreat and grab his spare one in the bathroom, Hary grabs his temples, the splint incastonated between the little and the ring finger. He grimaces at it but Harry just rolls his eyes.

"It's your saliva Louis, not venom." He mutters, and waits. Since he doesn't get it, Harry adds.

"Can you open up for me?"

He opens his mouth and the jaw clicks loudly with a muffled 'toc'. He closes it and the jaw readjusts itself with its horizontal motion. He's long lost all control over the movement. Harry still stares at him and shifts his fingers until they're right over the spots.

"Again?" he asks and Louis obliges.

Harry must feel it clearly then, he frowns slightly and massages his jaw on the worse side, as if trying to remove the pain. Futile attempt, but his chest contricts with the possible meaning of the gesture.

Slowly, he realizes that Harry is inching forward. He tries his best not to lean back, taking a deep breath to steady himself and he's rewarded by Harry's quick smile, before the green eyes refocus on his mouth. The thought 'about to be kiss' replays in his head at the rythym of his plummeting heartbeat, and then, Harry's plump, slightly chapped lips are on his.

Warming up quickly, they breathe with their noses in unison. When Harry's lips shift minutely, he tries to match the movement, but Harry beats him by angling himself just so, before leaning back.

The younger man grins cheekily and from the back of mind he lazily registers the plump forearms dangling from his shoulders. They're standing so close.

"How was it?" asks Harry, tone genuinely curious, and he knows his cheeks are betraying him.

Good.

he whispers.

Harry's grin morphs into an impossibly fond smile which he refuses to acknowledge as the origin of tingly fluttering in his guts.

"Good." Harry says back. "Then we can try to work from here, don't you think?"

He can't help but nodding feebly, his lips still warm, watching the short distance between their bodies, and revels in Harry's throaty chuckle.

.

.

.

## Cortina d'Ampezzo

Being at cross purposes but coming around to these circles of understanding, this is another aspect of his and Harry's relationship that he likes. His and Harry's. Relationship. He snickers in the shower.

After the other day's reunion, Harry sits him down with a cup of tea as encouragement and explains at length why he thinks this is an exclusive relationship, and more so since he finally got to disentangle himself from Louis' generous wallet.

He bristles every time Harry tries to get into the topic of boyfriends and partners, but the younger man doesn't give up, and insists that if people will ask him, he'll say that he's taken, like he's doing for a year and counting. Until Louis gets tired of him - at which words he shakes his head so fast his vision swims for a few seconds - Harry will openly say he's off the market.

"And.. I don't mind.. That you don't talk much."

He freezes, the couch dips as Harry shifts to regard him better.

"No, really. I don't mind. I talk a lot, and I'm so slow-paced. You always wait for me to finish, others don't do that."

He quickly types a response.

I like how you talk. which makes Harry chuckle.

"Thanks. I like how you write."

He bristles at that. Yeah, right...

"Seriously." adds Harry, tapping his arm. "I liked that letter, the one you... you know. It wasn't, err.. a happy read, but I loved the writing style. I know that you make a living with publishing stuff, but I guess it's nice having proof that you're really good at it. And it's handwritten, so it's more personal."

He squirms slightly while he types.

Thank you. I very much do like writing.

Harry chuckles again, his single dimple barely visible.

"It's fine, I like talking. So.. we match."

His smile breaks by its own and it's nice, having Harry here. It's really nice.

"Oh, right. Can I borrow your Mac to look something up?"

Harry left his phone charging in the kitchen so he nods quickly and sits up to take the laptop but Harry precedes him before he can so much shift his bum. Slower, he sits up anyway and motions for his crutch, when Harry's hand circles his bad leg's knee so lightly, he almost doesn't feel it. He turns back in enquiry.

"It's fine, you can stay. I'm the one imposing here, and it's something for you, actually."

Curious, he leans back and Harry scoots closer until their sides touch from shoulder to thighs.

"This okay?" whispers Harry, quivering with a nervous energy. He nods quickly and Harry slides closer still, and ultimately, shifts his bigger legs under his bad one so it's raised a bit.

"Still okay?" comes the whispered question. Hr nods quickly again although he can't stop a needle of fear from pinching his belly.

He's a cripple. He's a cripple he's a cripplehe'sacripple.

He clutches his fist and stares at Harry's stupidly long legs stretching comfortably under his bad one, gaining more and more of its twitching weight, until it's completely leaning onto Harry's. The relief on his thigh's and groin's muscles is immediate. With a whimper, he sags backwards and closes his eyes, focusing on breathing and reveling in the relaxation.

God, it feels so good he could stay like this for hours.

When he opens his eyes, Harry regards him with a smile bordering on dirty, but he doesn't want to dwell on it, to what he sees in the green orbs. He's a freak, he doesn't deserve Harry's kindness.

Sorry.

he whispers, and while Harry's saying that 'no, it's fine', he raises his phone and types.

You can move anytime you want, all right?

He stares pleadinly at Harry's sobered expression, until the curly-haired man nods.

Harry moves the Mac half on each other's groin and launches into the presentation of a touring physiotherapist who will lodge in Cortina for two weeks starting the upcoming one and will practice at the Cristallo Hotel. And he thought that if Louis asks, maybe he'll get an appointment, so Louis can get a professional massage. He knows that Louis goes to a physiotherapist when he goes back to the UK, but that's only twice a year, right?

"Of course, this is only if you want to go. I'd take you, obviously, I know the way. But.. Cristallo is a five stars hotel, and I checked how much the appointment costs.. So, yeah... You can stay there for the night, or you tell me and I'll park the pickup there, take a walk and be back by the time you're done. No problem."

He tries not to grin at the thought of Harry planning a whole trip for his sake only.

Don't you want to come, too? he types.

Harry squirms and flusters. It's absurdly endearing seeing the curly-haired man's usually composed self fading into bashfulness.

You massaded my leg like a professional. I can tell you researched.

"Err.. Well, I might have watched some videos around. A couple."

He wonders what 'videos around' really means, and if 'a couple' stands for a couple dozens. That's more likely.

Are you free next week? Do you have work?

"No, nothing yet. The Ministry han't faxed me the contract yet, so I've just taken a look at the website but I haven't begun any translation yet. Until they fax the contract, there's no point."

Nodding, he types.

All right, then. If you'd like, I'd be glad if you accompanied me. I'll book the rooms and call my driver.

"What driver? I'm your driver." The grumbled aggressive tone in Harry's words makes him smile.

No, I mean that I have the number of an agency I can send a text to when I have to go far by car. They send me a driver.

"Oh, I thought you went to the airport by taxi.."

Shaking his head, he taps on the screen as Harry scrolls down the Cristallo Hotel's picture gallery.

"Lou." he turns around. "What did you mean by rooms? Plural." He slides the phone-book away and retrieves his messages.

Two single rooms, obviously.

"Oh." is the answer. Another pause, although Harry doesn't scroll the pictures this time.

"I thought...." whispers Harry pulling at his slightly chapped lips. He regards him, eyebrows raised, hoping it's an invitation enough to continue.

"We could share one. Like-like... If you want. Um... Like two mates in a relationship. We could do that. A double bedroom. I don't kick in my sleep, I swear."

He stares at himself reflected on the phone's black screen. To tell or not to tell... Harry whispers "Look, Lou.." as he switches the screen on.

My leg twitches in my sleep.

An ex-lover told him that. One of the few, unfortunate exes in his life. Guys so curious they blindly fell in bed with him, and were soon disgusted by him, and very vocally expressed their feelings about all of it, before leaving.

"It's fine. I don't mind." shrugs Harry and he clutches his phone and shakes his head.

Are you sure?

"Absolutely." says Harry regarding him steadily.

I can book a spare.

"Don't. Please." Harry's frown is not a nice sight, so he relents, sighing. While he texts the driver's company, Harry calls the hotel.

.

.

.

.

The drive, which haunted his night with all sorts of nefarious outcomes, one more nightmarish than the other, proves to turn out fine.

Harry doesn't seem to dread the fact that he is sharing such a close space with him, nor he reproaches him for typing lines for a chapter on his phone from time to time or the lack of interaction.

It's the first time he's away from the lake house with Harry, apart from the times he had dinner at Anne's, but they seem to work all right around each other even outside of his safe zone. They both 'wow' at the Dolomite mountains, and while he taps and points, Harry verbally provides the rest of the commentary, and he nods along.

Out of the car, Harry briskly reminds the driver that he will help Louis out, thankyouverymuch, at which he desperately tries not to let the word 'possessive' slither into his mind.

Checking in is also surprisingly easy. The director seems to be of a man of his word, and it's just he, Harry, the receptionist, and a man who precedes them to bring their luggage to their room. Room. Singular.

The elevator ride is quiet, the hallways are quiet, the suit is magnificent.

Harry, as he imagined, gapes at the shining surfaces and the polished woods. He has to admit, though, the wood is so clean he can actually reflect himself on it.

He stands in this luxurious space... and he feels like an old man, an old cripple who is letting himself have a glimpse of a higher step before he retreats home to die.

His mental paragraph is interrupted when Harry pops up from the bathroom and tells him that there are ridiculously good-smelling shampoos in here, Lou, apple and raspberry!

He smiles at the man's antics and, slower than usual, make his way to the window. That's right. An old cripple, living his last days at the top, tucking away the most beautiful, purest emerald, like the heartless, selfish jerk he is.

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Saying that he's relaxed would be the euphemism of the year. He's boneless.

The massage was so good, he doesn't have words to describe it. They were all massaged out of him.

In a masterful display of charm, Harry even charmed his way into being shown the ropes.

Well, that's not exactly true. Actually, at first, the doctor thought Harry was joking and he let him have a go at Louis' leg to laugh at him. Louis realized that, Harry must have too, but when he drilled some fear-of-Harry into a stubborn knot in the back of his bad thigh, the doctor's derision turned into respect and he complimented the much younger man in his simple English.

Saying he didn't glow with second-hand pride would be an out-out lie.

Only, the doctor's massages eased out the tension, yes, but the remains of something else emerged. A month-worth of horny want.

Unlike the Christmas holidays, during which he just sucked it up and lived on, since he had an armful of Harry during their reunion, his night's (and morning's) fantasies have brought back every memory he has in his wank bank. And now thanks to Harry, there are tons, one hotter than the other. However, as he's a fucking freak, did they help him get off? Not one bit.

That's why that evening, when he's lying, liquid and horny, on the bed, his arm half raised to lazily keep up the phone, so as soon as Harry comes out of the bathroom-

Ride my mouth.

thud. Harry must have dropped what he was carrying. He slides his other arm away from his eyes and darts a look. Harry's standing there, in nothing but his boxers, and he instantly flushes at Louis' capital-words message. Thank goodness, at least he's not the only one who wants this. So? Come on, let's get on with it. Right now.

Harry retrieves whatever he dropped, oh, hi lube, and hops to fish out something from his bag, hey condom, and places them on the bedside table. He kneels on the bed next to Louis' chest.

"Lou, are you sure?" his tone is shaky and unsure.

What kind of question is that, god's sake... He nods quickly, already imagining the taste.

"But... what of the splint?"

... ... ... Fuck!

Fucking hell.

He coils in himself the quickest he can. Fuck, the splint. How in hell could he have forgotten about it? What the hell he was thinking? Ugh, he's such a moron, he can barely eat a mouthful of solid food, let alone take someone in his mouth! And did he forget his previous lovers already? Ugh..

God fucking damn, he's such an idiot.

A moment later he feels Harry's fingertips nudging him and prodding his side, and he's calling him, saying it's fine, it's all right, he just wants to know. But he curls up further and burrows his face in the pillow. He's too mortified to deal with life, he'd burn the text message from Harry's memory if he could.

After moments of deafening silence, Harry starts stroking his back. The mantra plays on in his mind, but it would be best if Harry told him out loud. Still, he tries to calm himself down a bit by repeating to himself how stupid he is, so as not to make it totally awkward for Harry, at least. Harry's caresses help a lot.

"Did you ever... Have you done that, before?"

He turns a bit. He wants to shake his head. He wants to, for Harry. It would have been a blast to learn the ropes with him. Harry doesn't deserve someone who disgusted people so much before. He nods, looking apologetic for all his worth.

"How did it work... With the splint. Did you have it?"

He nods, slower, while simultaneously trying not to replay the grimace of Rob's face. God, that time. One of the most embarassing of his life.

Disgusting.

He blurts out before he can think of the phone still in his hand and even though it's a whisper, the 's's drag out messily. Fuck everything.

He stares in the darkness, mortified and frustrated. He listens to Harry's breaths above him.

"Do you want.. Would you like my fingers, instead? We can try that, first, and then... we'll see."

After searching for the punch line and not finding it, he croaks out

'm afraid.

But of course the 'f' gets dragged out and the 'r' doesn't stand a chance to be heard. He almost slams his phone on the bedside table, since he's dead-on intent of humiliating himself in this manner today.

"I'm not afraid." comes the reply from above him and bless this man, he thinks. He doesn't know what he did to deserve him, to deserve this undivided attention and comprehension, but he soaks it in, for the little time Harry will stay with him until he leaves, he'll soak in however much he can take.

"I'll pull them out if you hurt me... all right?" he nods quickly because, yes, please, Harry must do that.

Undressing is not quick work with Harry, almost ever, Harry whispers sentences to his thigh while he pulls his boxers off and he pulls the younger man's t-shirt up. As soon as his dick is free and erected a bit with the first wave of arousal, Harry mouths words teasingly higher on his good thigh, bits of truth, causing him to fill up painfully quick.

As Harry rubs them together, the friction light and teasing, he raises two fingers in front of his mouth. In the light shining through the bathroom's door he notices that Harry's eyes are unfocused, his irids almost invisible, and his heart plummets. He vaguely hoped they would be three or four, since this will likely be the only time he will get any body part of Harry in his mouth. But beggars can't choose.

He opens easily and as soon as he with a last glance to Harry's expression, he closes his eyes and closes on them. Harry's reaction is immediate. He shivers all over, he feels him from Harry's fingers in his mouth to Harry's other hand on his hip, but he doesn't pull out, and when he starts to lap at them with his tongue and sucks, Harry groans and closes his hand again around the base of Louis' cock, tugging him tightly with lube-slick fingers.

As he opens his eyes, Harry's down on him, arm propped up beside his chest, his abs quivering with his feral-like motions, his curls cascading around his face, and his eyes so magnetizing, Louis imagines his life energy being sucked right into them and he knows he wouldn't mind one bit. He already can't imagine life without this man, he's so gone.

It should be enough. This should suffice. But it doesn't, he can't. He's not under enough, he's still lucid.

Even as Harry wraps his hand around them both, he feels his cock softening slightly. He voices his protest around the fingers. Harry shivers with the reverberation, but when he reopens his eyes he has a familiar hard expression etched in his features.

"You can't do anything useful with your mouth, didn't anyone tell you that?" He groans as his cock fattens by the second. Harry's ring finger enter his mouth too, his jaw is rigid but his splint allows the stretch.

"Crying like a baby, you give me the creeps, can't do anything normal if it kills you."

That's right, that's right. He moans louder around the fingers. He can't, and he's crying already, god he's such a child.

Another digit, four of them and Louis sucks on them happily, his jaw starts to hurt but with a mouthful of this man, and Harry telling him the truth, he's happier than he's ever been.

When Harry takes the fingers out, he wants to protest despite the relief on his tendons, but a thought occurs him then, perhaps he hurt Harry?

Harry doesn't look at his fingers, though, or hisses in pain, he circles Louis' rim with a spit-covered finger instead. A shiver reverberates down his spine and he throws his head back instinctively and he keens, loud, while he thrusts his hips down, engulfing the finger and sucking it in.

Fuck the past month, he's ready. He's fucking horny and he wants this now.

Harry says something but it's lost in his desperate whine. He splutters when his tears fall in his mouth and he brings himself down again. He notices then that he can do that only because his bad leg isn't twitching so bad. Coming here was such a good idea. The best.

"Fuck, fuck! Pass the pillow."

He doesn't know where the voice comes from, he's too elated by the facts that he can move his hips without disrupting his bad leg and that drools is dribbling down his chin because he had Harry's fingers in his mouth just seconds ago. He obliges quickly and it's the fastest time he's ever heard Harry tearing a packet and rolling a condom on himself and slicking himself up. If someone keeps records, Harry just beat it.

There's a familiar cockhead nudging his rim and he swings his hands on the bedboard to push himself down. It's too rough by half, Harry's breath is knocked out, or so he translates the grunt. He opens his eyes and sees Harry clutching at the sheets beside his chest, his eyes are closed. Fuck, did he hurt Harry?!

Harry!

The name comes out completely distorted, the 'r' is the trickiest letter, but it does the job. Harry looks up and he must look so desperate because fuck, he didn't mean to hurt him! Harry doesn't pull out, though, he relocates his hands on his hip and thigh, the bad one, and whispers.

"Fuck. Lou. Fuck-"

He doesn't know what that means in current language, but he feels Harry's cock shifting forward the tiniest bit, lube dripping down his hole and pushes with his hands again, taking in more. Harry sags forward, takes a couples of deep breaths before he gets up and meets his eyes with a burning determination.

The third time, he meets Louis' halfway, and soon, Louis doesn't have the strength to counterbalance Harry's healthy, stronger thighs anymore. His cock lies forgotten and half-softened on Harry's belly, while he desperately tries not to let himself slip out of the mood.

"Good for nothing, you are. You can't even keep it up. I bet your New Year's resolution was to become a resemblance of a normal man. Not the worthless cripple you are. Must you be accompanied everywhere by hand like a child? Constant surveillance, because you can't-even-keep-it-up."

With a loud wail, the tears are back, and so is the fog in his mind, so is the tight heat in his belly. He waited so long, he's been waiting since before Christmas to feel that heat again, all he think now as Harry barrels in him fast and hard is fuck.Yes.

Halting snuggly close to his prostate, Harry bends and licks his collarbone while a hand comes to gather his precome then lowers to squeeze his testicle lightly, making him squirm and wail. When Harry starts thrusting again, his cock slaps rhytmically along, so hard it's become a proud red shade.

"You're disgusting, you should have seen yourself, sucking my fingers like an animal in heat." says Harry raising his good leg a bit and keeping him down as he pulls almost completely out and pumps in again. He loves that angle and if he keens louder because of it, it's nobody's business. He feels the heat spiralling lower and lower, his thighs quiver, or more precisely, the good one quivers, the bad one just twitches. That's it, he's almost there.

He cries out Harry's name between the tears, because it's been so long, he's relaxed and horny, and it's been really fucking long, he wants to come, goddamn it.

"Lap at my finger is all you're good at, you and your useless, disgusting mouth."

The fog thickens around Harry's voice, bringing him down, down, down, where he's warm all over and distant.

So distant.

When he comes down, Harry moved his hand (because he always strokes him through it) from Louis' soft dick to his own.

When he pulled out, how that felt, he doesn't know, everything is still kind of soft and blurry. When he sees the condom being pulled off and Harry starting to wank over his thigh, the bad one again, he just blurts it out, without thinking.

Mouth.

Something intelligible comes out, along the lines of 'maafff'', but Harry doesn't frown, he stares at him, frozen.

My mouth.

He tries, but the words are no less unclear. Fucking fuck!

Come in my mouth.

He tries again, his splint stitching the 'm's together, and his desperation turning it into a high-pitched whine, but Harry seems to get it, somehow, miraculously, because he brings himself up, crawls above him and he's the sexiest sight he's ever laid eyes on. But when Harry kneels above his face... nope, he takes it back, this is the sexiest sight he's ever laid eyes on.

Harry's so tall from this viewpoint, his cock is a proud red shade, his balls pulled tight, his abs quiver and his chest goes on for hours. Harry's eyes are unfocused, dark, and scary, so scary, he's afraid he'll blurt out something else, some of those things he keeps close and wound tight around his heart, but he doesn't dare to move a muscle, not even to clench his mouth shut.

Instead, he keeps it ajar. The hands above him move. A few strokes and warm liquid falls on his cheeks, on his nose, on his neck.

He flicks his tongue out to taste purely on instinct, logical thought still far from his reach. Harry, of course, sees that, but if he's disgusted by it, he doesn't show. Instead, Harry's position falters and he quickly swings his leg so he doesn't fall on Louis, but beside him.

He slowly unclasps his hands from the bed frame and brings his arms down. His muscles sting from the prolonged position, but it's a good sensation, almost thrilling. It matches the ache between his legs.

He thinks about swinging another small lick before the liquid dries up. Harry's taste is strong, like he imagined, and a bit sharp, not quite like he imagined. He hears something shift on the sheets and he turns.

Harry's lying on his belly but he's staring at him, staring at his mouth. Slowly, Harry extends his hand, and with his thumb, he gathers some of the clear-coloured liquid, and hovers on his upper lip. He cannot stare down at it so he stares at the room's ceiling while he sucks it.

A groan makes him turn, Harry's burying his face in the pillow, his hand falls on Louis' chest. He doesn't understand, why is Harry angry? Wasn't that what Harry wanted him to do? But when the younger man resurfaces, his expression isn't hard, it's mirth, and his cheeks are bright red.

"Fuckshit, Lou. You'll be the death of me."

He doesn't understand, but Harry smiles and sits on his kneels, bumps his nose against Louis' soaked one, and circles the bed to get into the bathroom. He probably prepared fluffy little towels beforehand.

Staring at the ceiling again, his nose a small point of warmth, he lets himself breathe out, and slowly, one heartbeat at a time, he makes himself resurface.

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The compromise of a long car tour around Cortina is good enough for him, but he wishes it wasn't enough for Harry.

After having had a long discussion in their room while preparing their luggage, with him apologizing for making Harry babysit him all the time and not being able to go around the city to have some fun, to which Harry rebuted that one, he wasn't babysitting - 'what the hell with that, Lou, you're perfectly independent, you're just a bit lazy when it comes to cooking and cleaning' - and second, it's so cold it would be fun the first five minutes and he doesn't enjoy going out alone anyway. To which he threw that Harry could have come with his friends, he would have enjoyed himself properly then and he apologized for not being normal like them, to which Harry reminded him that he was perfectly happy, and maybe he would come again with Z and Li, who knows.

He finished by saying that maybe in a year's time he would get better and he would go out with Harry, and Harry concluded

"A year, a decade, however much you need, Lou. Don't pressure yourself with deadlines, you have enough already."

The knowledge that he's lacking in the simple department of walking around with his best friend and current..... relationship.... makes him sigh and sag on the spot.

The reception is clean but the faint smell of old surrounds the furniture, he notices while waiting for the receptionist to appear, while Harry went to fetch the car (and bonus driver). Soon, his leg and arm hurt a bit, as usual, but as usual, he grits his teeth through his splint and tells himself to suck it up.

Trouble finds him in an blond, abundant man with thinning air.

He hopes that the man is a guest and will go straight for the stairs, so he just looks down and inconspicuously hides the cane behind his leg. But no, that's too much luck for him and obviously the man zeroes in on him and, fishing out a map from his worn-out leather bag, unbuttoning his fur coat to reveals a sober beige suit, starts asking Louis directions in a jovial, loud, simplified Italian, soggy with Russian accent.

The panic is not immediate, it starts slowly actually, in his subconscious, rendering him speechless. Which is, by the way, what irritates people first and foremost.

It truly hits him when he remembers about the cane. He still doesn't know what is worse, the crutch or the cane, but in those moments, he imagines himself from outside with contempt.

A thirty-years-old young man, disheveled, thin, scrawny, gracile, with blue eyes circled by large, puffy, purple bags, wide open in fear, but with a strange aggressiveness set in his too sharp jaw, which he tries to abate with his scruff, wearing relatively elegant clothes and finally, leaning on a walking cane.

A haggard, a laughinstock, a clown. Whatever did one of his exes call him? Oh yes, an old beggar in drag.

'You look like a weird beggar' he said, with a (well-deserved) sneer 'i would throw five cents in your hat, if you even carried one.' and then, as an afterthought 'please don't wear hats. Ew'.

He doesn't wear hats. Never. Never liked them much anyway. The occasional beanie when he retrieves the mail in winter, and that's it. He likes them on Harry, though. Wearing a dusty green headband and a brown fedora, that's the first time he thought Harry and hats definitely agreed with each other.

In the meantime, the jovial man frowns, the map still between them. He resolutely looks at everywhere but it.

The frown's good, he thinks. Soon he'll starts to scream, if he is that kind of man he'll shove, then he'll leave him down and run away as if he murdered someone and he will get himself up, it will hurt, but he'll suck it up because it's all right, it's not the man's fault that he's like this.

As the man is demanding to know why Louis is being so rude to him so graitously in an increasingly distessed tone, Harry runs from the corner where the doors are, further along.

Harry runs to them and he feels like he's the embodiment of stupidity and helpelessness. He can picture the scene in his mind. He will sidestep the man and meet Harry's extended arm, seeking help.

Thing is, he cannot move.

Unperturbed, Harry halts as he reaches them and slides his arm around his lower back, encasing himself in his side. It's not the bad leg's side, but it's equally helping. He feels the familiar bigger hand stroking his side and he has to fight the impending need to get closer, to burrow his face in Harry's coat.

He thinks Harry will say 'sorry i left you alone' or 'i'm here' or something that will leave him properly mortified, even if he already is, but Harry, ever-surprising Harry, leans in and whispers in his ear.

"Doesn't your leg hurt, Lou? I can come to the other side if you want."

Looking at him, shocked, when Harry leans back, he shakes his head. Harry smiles and nods, satisfied.

As Harry turns, he catches a glimpse of what Harry's furious face must look, but he contents himself with hearing a cold voice threatening to call the guard outside if the man keeps upsetting his partner further, as he clearly did already.

The man passes a shocked look between the two of them, and he doesn't want to know if it's because they're two men or because he just realized he upset Louis in his innocence. However, all he does is saying something short in russian and sidestepping them by a good meter.

Passing by, he nods at the floor, hoping it could pass as an apology.

The next time Harry speaks to him, they are in the car. He smiles sheepishly and adjusts his curls, his nervous gesture.

"Sorry if I called you 'my partner' back there. 'S the first thing that came to me. Is it totally lame?"

Fighting back a smile, he shakes his head slowly. It's fine. And if he looks closely, he finds he enjoyed the term a tad too much.

The landscape passes them by, and the whole episode is left at that.

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## (not) the only man in the world

The first time he sees Niall after the holidays and the trip to Cortina, the blond man has got enough bags of (approved) (fan)mail to resemble Santa Claus' cargo. Of course he can't say that out loud, but he grins knowingly when Niall jokes that this is his Christmas presents for Louis.

They talk about Christmas, or, well, Niall talks, he nods and smiles along and plans how many trips he will have to take with all these bags when he sees Niall focusing on something behind him.

He turns and finds Harry walking on the bridge towards them, a resolute pace in his limbs, his jaw set tight, his expression dark.

He backtracks in his memories as fast as he can to search for what he did wrong this time, but at the same time he can't help but being struck by the gorgeousness of this man, completely in awe with this walking winter storm that's advancing towards them.

After a quick handshake and pat on the shoulder, in that exact moment, he notices from the back of his mind that this is the first time Niall saw anyone else walking out of the lake house apart from himself.

Harry took a professional course until December, he was never around at this time of the day.

As Harry steps back from the handshake, he slots himself beside him and slides a hand to his lower back, like he did in the hotel's lobby. Although he doesn't understand the meaning of the gesture this time. He's not afraid of Niall. Niall is a good guy, why is Harry touching him then? Maybe Harry's mocking him in front of Niall?

He makes to shy away when the two surprise him by starting to talk about high school in flawless Italian.

Well then. There go the presentations. They know each other.

From what they let out of their conversation, they were either in the same class or in the same circle, and suddenly he feels in the way, in the wrong place. This is a reunion between old friends, he's ruining it, he shouldn't be here, he should make make himself scarce, go away. However, as he shifts, he realizes Harry has other plans, apparently.

Feeling the bigger man leaning more on him, he has to lean more on the bridge's handrail, and in doing that, he's trapped. He doesn't exactly feel trapped, because, well, this is Harry after all. This is the man who became his best friend before he started living with him and got into.... an exclusive relationship with.

The intimacy and familiarity of the body next to his, lets the trapping completely drain out of his mind as he revels in the warmth of Harry's bigger frame. By the time Harry and Niall amiably pat each other's shoulders again, he's the one who has to scramble upright not to lean on thin air when Harry moves.

As he hasn't dared to look above thighs' height as the two men were talking, he doesn't know what expressions showed in Niall's face, but Harry's all chirpy and satisfied-looking as he helps getting the mail inside. So it seems that, he deduces, the young postman isn't homophobic. Another good point in the blond's favour.

In the living room, Harry's demeanour changes again.

"What is Niall to you?" he asks with a frown, easing the bag of mail on 'the mail armchair'.

He promptly takes his phone and types.

What?

"Niall. You were talking to him like you are good friends." The scowl is still there, plus bonus arms crossed. What is going on?

He's a nice guy.

"Yeah I know that" replies Harry rolling his eyes and threading his fingers in his curls.

"You didn't smile like that at me, though."

Confused, he deletes the last line until the previous remains.

"I mean.. It took you months to smile to me. Months. I thought you hated me."

I never hated you!

"Yeah, now I know that!" exclaims Harry raising his arms in exasperation. With a sigh he continues "Look, you were smiling at him and you were all..." Harry sighs again, pulling his curls. "Forget it."

A silly thought crosses his mind and he grins jokingly as he types.

What are you, jealous?

"Yeh, I kind of am." replies Harry conversationally. Like he says 'it's going to rain' or 'i didn't put the salt in this'. He shakes his face back from a mask of pure shock and types quickly

I was kidding!!

"Well... I wasn't."

He can't believe this boy, what the hell is he talking about?

What's there to be jealous about?!

"Of you with other men, obviously." exclaims Harry scowling deeply and amply gesturing at the entrance, as if rows of men are lining up for Louis this instant or something.

What other men?? Who would want me?? Why would anyone possibly want me?? he practically shoves the phone in Harry's face in his haste. He doesn't understand why Harry sighs at the words since it's the honest, plain truth.

"Well, for starter, you're handsome and-" He scoffs at that and types furiously.

Ridiculous! I'm not! I'm nothing special.

Harry sighs exasperated again, but keeps on.

"Well, I think you're very handsome, okay? And as I'm not the only person in the world, other people could think that, too. Plus, since you don't go clubbing or around.... much.... I thought showing the postman that you're clearly taken is the best next option. Word goes around, everyone's bound to know in a few days. What am I saying, hours."

Niall doesn't go around telling people about me! he types, basing his statement mostly from his own hopes.

"Yes and how much stuff have you told him?" Harry's accusing tone - jealousy again? - makes him scoff. Of course he didn't say much, how could he?

"Anyway, don't understimate Calalzo's ladies, some of them are very scary, they'll take it out of him with hot cocoa and cookies, Lou. Just wait."

He slides his phone alive, though, stubborn.

And what if they don't? He doesn't know why he's being a little shit apart from the fact that he's being a little shit. Harry throws his arms in the air, threads his hand in his curls and starts to pace up and down in the living room like a trapped animal.

"I don't know! I'll post a selfie of me in front of the bridge with the sign 'taken' and post it on the municipal's- LOUIS!" He's startled to death when Harry suddenly grabs his hand.

Perhaps Harry wants to prevent him from writing, although his eyes are sparkling bright and the dimply grin is in full power.

"A selfie! We can take a selfie and I'll post it!"

Mh? A picture?? With him???

His shocked expression must show enough because Harry's face falls instantly into a pout. He's not endearing. He's not.

"Can't I?"

He shakes his head veehemently because like hell he can! He can only imagine the laughter and the comments.

Harry keeps pouting, staring at the floor. Soon, though, he hops and smiles, mirth lightning up his face again.

"Can I take a picture of this instead?"

Harry says, bringing up their hands. Mh? He dislodges his and types

My hand or my phone?

Harry shakes his head quickly, pucking his lips.

"Neither. Our hands." he answers, grinning. And...... okay. If Harry wants to post a picture that badly, this..... could actually be okay.

Tucking his phone back, frowning, confused, he nods and Harry jumps a bit on the spot before retrieving his phone from the kitchen. He steers them in front of the glass wall and joins their hands together, arms extended in front of them.

In Harry's screen, they look quite good. With the greyish light of the winter's afternoon ahead and the artificial white light behind, their joined hands are immortilized with a faint shutter sound.

Harry takes another, and another, until he deems the blur gone enough and the light right, and posts it. He doesn't mean to pry, but he sees a Facebook page being pulled up. He types and shows the screen to Harry.

What do they say about me?

Harry frowns and looks back to his post to adjust the cut.

"They're stupid anyway. Don't listen to them, Lou, it's the usual, stupid stuff."

Yes, but what they say?

Harry posts it, flicks his phone off and, focusing on him, he leans in slowly.

He stands on guard instantly, not knowing what to expect, but Harry raises a hand to his temple, stroking there, then lowering it to his jaw, repeating the motion and finally settling on his lower lip.

..... Oh.

He sees Harry checking his eyes and there must be everything he needs there, before he closes the distance.

When he finally closes his eyes, the warmth on his lips explode.

It's as salty as the fish and sauces they had for lunch earlier, and shifting, like them, leaning now backward, now forward, now diagonally.

Harry's tongue flicks out for a second and he thinks he must have imagined it, but with the remains of the resolve he finds inside of him, he flicks his out too, imitating the slow, short lick, before retreating, his face on fire.

When he dares opening his eyes again, Harry grins triumphally in front of him, his hands casually resting on Louis' hips.

He feels warmer by the second with their closeness and as he tries to gather his wits, touching his lips, tracing the sizzling sensation there, Harry crowds on him and whispers in his ear.

"I'll tell you tonight."

Jesus fucking christ, he thinks, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

If he didn't have his crutch to support him, he'd be a heap of clothes on the floor.

Harry, the teasing shit, grins unbashedly and returns to his own laptop in the kitchen.

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## I hear you calling

Sometimes he stops in the middle of the room and thinks about his leg.

There are a couple of reasons why he doesn't like to stand for a prolonged period of time. Firstly, his leg's occasional twitch turns into a spasm after a while, and he does not like that, and secondly, he gets lost in his own head.

It starts by marveling at the simple fact that he relies heavily on a crutch to walk around his own house. At thirty years old. Because his fucking leg doesn't work properly anymore.

From there, it's a steep staircase into a mental black gorge.

If his leg worked, he'd go around and meet people, try to socialize and maybe succeeding in making friends. He wouldn't have been so shit in bed with his previous lovers and he might be able to reciprocate Harry's touches, let alone, maybe, in another world, be the one to do the fucking for once. He wouldn't trip on ice and sleek surfaces, or on carpets, and worsen the damage. He wouldn't look like an old man and people wouldn't either regard him as posh because of the walking cane or laugh at him, for the same reason. Worse still, if he used his crutch while going out, they would simply stop and stare and pity him.

It takes nothing to walk down the first step into the gorge.

A minute, five, that's relative, but in his mind, it's nothing. It's a single thought. "I am lame."

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It comes out from his own bed that night. It usually tries to devour him while he's in his childhood school, or worse, while he's in bed with his previous lovers, while he notices their grimacing encouragements but decides to ignore them.

But this time it's in his own bed, and he doesn't know which is worse.

He tries to scrambles away but the black thing is too quick. A touch, and rotting bubbles pop up from his good leg. His bad leg is, naturally, already covered in purple and bluish swellings. But his good one...!

He screams and blindly grabs at the bedside table in attempt to find something that will help shove the thing off his good leg. It's under his skin, it's rotting the flesh! It's going to rot the bone!

He flings himself down the bed, hoping that the bed-sheets have it now, but the misty bastard emerges from the linens and yellow eyes narrow at him. He will pay for this.

He can't run with his legs like this, but he crawls backwards as fast as he can. He bumps into his crutch, making it fall. Quick as he can he brings himself up but his good leg gives out and in the blink of an eye, he flops down on the floor. Ouch. Fuck. That hurt!

Shooting a look behind, he sees the thing is crawling leisurely towards him, knowing he cannot escape, knowing it will get to turn his bones into mush sooner or later, it will chew his kneecap one day for sure.

With his arms, he pushes himself up in a sitting position but something else raises him higher, higher than his arms can hoist him. A new wave of panic seizes him, and he starts flailing blindily. He screams, while bigger hands grab him and a bigger torso supports his weight from behind.

The thing is coming towards him though, so he doesn't care if a burglar came in or whatever, what's important is getting the fuck away from it! Turning around, he makes to escape, but Harry's suddenly right in front of him and he jerks into silence, stunned by the other man's totally unexpected presence.

Harry's mouth is moving but he can't hear a thing. Frustrated, he shakes his head lightly, and the thick silence thins out a bit, only for Harry's voice to reach him slowly, as if he's not right there in front of him.

"-is! Can you hear me? Louis?"

He shakes his head, he can't hear well, then he remembers the thing and looks down. Fuck! It's around his ankle! His good leg!

There's a tangle of limbs while he tries to shake the thing off, Harry's saying something to him, trying to shift his weight to support him more, but he doesn't understand that he gives zero fuck about his fucking no-good leg, not anymore, because he has to save his good one now at least.

Suddenly, his wrists are caught and flung over Harry's shoulder, a forearm comes to support his bum and a hand grabs his bad leg's knee as loosely as Harry always does, without any squeezing.

He floats for a bit, and everything in his mind grows quiet. From up here he can't see where the thing is. It crawls but it doesn't jump, so in theory it can't reach him.

He's let down on a familiar shape, the couch in the living room. But as soon as his legs bend, his good one starts to pulse.

Crying out, he clutches it. Harry asks him if it's the leg, and he nods, then Harry squeezes his calf, his bad one though, so he taps furiously his good thigh. It's not that one, it's this one!

Harry, confused, regards him with a frown, but he doesn't look at at the younger man, he has to be on his guard for the thing. He doesn't see it, but Harry's too big and the room's so dark, apart from the night lights at the base of the walls.

The swellings return and darting a look around, he finds that the thing is back around his ankle. He screams and tries to kick it, but Harry's hand is on his ankle fast and keeps it down, the other hand is around both of his wrists, preventing him any movement.

Harry's talking to him and he tries to explain, frustrated at Harry's attempts to sabotage his escape. It's going to eat it! It's going to eat his leg, his good leg! He won't be able to walk anymore. He'll become, not a cripple, he'll become paralyzed! He'll become paralyzed! He doesn't want to sit on a wheelchair, he doesn't want it, they made him sit on it in the hospital, it was bloody awful, he doesn't want to live like that!

Painfully aware that even though he tries to say this, he blurts out only a few disconnected words and those which manage to get past his mad jungle of thoughts come out in strings of splutters and whiny vocals.

He shakes his head furiously, so frustrated with himself he wants to scream.

Pulling at Harry's hand, he clutches his ears, he looks down to his legs, the bad one is completely covered in blue, nasty-looking swellings, but it's normal, it's always been. But the good one, how long will the good one look like a normal leg? How long until it won't work anymore?

He pulls at his hair, he wants it to stop, he wants the thing to stop to try to devour him, fuck it!

He sags forward until his forehead touches his thighs. He's screaming. He's crying. He screams.

He screams.

He screams.

.

.

.

.

.

He writes Harry a letter, that morning, after waking up on the couch, finding Harry sitting beside him in nothing but his pants, clutching his hand and staring at him with a mask of horror and apprehension.

After nodding that yes, he's fine, and shaking that no, he doesn't want to talk about it, he retreats to his bedroom and writes.

In the letter he says that yes, a couple of nights a year he has some bad dreams, but it's nothing beyond that. Bad dreams.

He doesn't need a therapist and he's not going to talk to one, and if Harry calls one or calls the hospital's psychiatry ward, he's going to call his lawyer. As simple as that.

Later that day, he sees Harry reading it from where he works. He left it on the kitchen table. He sees Harry folding it back, putting it in his pocket, and starts fishing out what he needs for today's dinner.

Harry doesn't bring it up again.

.

.

.

.

He wakes up gradually.

He's dreaming about getting a blowjob from Harry and.... well, that's nothing new. He daydreamt about it yesterday too, it was eating out the day before yesterday.

Since 'The Nightmare Incident', yes there's still a label, he pointedly avoided Harry's touch.

While chatting with Niall and Harry joined them, while navigating around him in the kitchen, while moving to take the same object. He steps back and avoids eye-contact. After a short while, they are back to normal.

He's managed to go on like this for a little more than a couple weeks. He doesn't how long he can keep this up, but he feels so ashamed when he thinks Harry is going to touch him again with the same hands with which he touched Louis' shaking body that night.

He still has troubles coping with the fact that Harry saw him, he saw him, and most puzzling, he hasn't packed and gone his merry way yet.

So, yes, he's dreaming about Harry sucking his morning wood, sue him.

He opens his eyes and finds that the faint morning light streaming from the hallway. Strange, it's always night in his fantasies.

He looks down to Harry's splendid tongue doing something to a vein on the side of his cock that he moans at, and his gaze is met with bright green orbs.

Sleep rolls off him rapidly as waves of strong arousal travel in his limbs. It doesn't feel much like a dream anymore.

It can't be....... Fucking hell.

He reaches out to touch Harry's hair, to check for himself if he's imagining all this, but halfway, he sees his extended arm and briskly retreats it, mentally reprimanding himself. That was a close one.

Wet warmth leaves him, and the cool morning air cruelly hits his heated crotch.

Harry shifts forward and he can't help but stare at the man's spit-slick mouth, looking obscene with spit and precome dribbling down the chin, lips bright pink and puffy.

He has zero idea about what to say or what to do so he just wills every muscle immobile, waiting.

Harry stares down at him groggily for a few heartbeats, then attacks his mouth. A tongue slips past his lips, so easily and so fast he barely registers it until it's licking his upper row of teeth, then the roof of his mouth.

He moans through it, relishing in the tickling sensation, trying to keep his mouth as open as the splint lets him. He can taste faint morning breath but predominantly something slightly salty on Harry's tongue and the thought that his sperm is on someone's else tongue and that he's tasting it, he has physical proof for himself, awakens something burrowed deep inside him, something scary and powerful that he can't even begin to process.

Harry licks his teeth again and angles himself so he can lap at the sides of Louis0 mouth. A few seconds for air, and he's waging war again, this time, picking at Louis' tongue.

He tries to remember the few times he kissed someone, but it's so long ago. He flicks his tongue out, tentatively, and Harry hums encouragingly, pulling out and licking his lips, then going in again.

When Harry retreats a third time, they are both panting so hard their chests rise and fall visibly with the need to take as much oxygen in as possible.

Liquid leaks on his lower belly, but he doesn't pay it any attention, he's more focused on tryng to gauge Harry's next move by the focus in his eyes. He fails miserably because Harry grabs his dick from behind and scoops back. Only then he seems to notice that Harry is completely naked. He himself has only his pajama's t-shirt on.

Hypnotized, he waits for Harry to scoot further backwards. Instead, the Harry lowers himself down on his erection. While staring at him. GodFuck-

He's about to tell him to stop when he feels Harry's rim is cool with lube already. That must be the drops he felt on his abdomen before, he realizes, looking down at himself. It is indeed lube. Harry's already slicked himself and fingered himself open. And he's clearly trying to knock his sanity out for the count before the day even starts.

His mind is still trying to catch up on the fact that he has just been kissed for the first time in years when every logical thought hurls out of the window as he is encompassed by an impossibly tight heat.

Simultaneously, his arms shoot above his head as he clutches the headboard. His bad leg twitches to the side, only for Harry to blindly hook it from behind with his forearm and keeping it angled. His focus flickers back on his cock and then everything is just tighttighttight. He doesn't remember it being so fucking tight, holy shit-

His mind goes shirt-circuit in a mantra of 'shit-fuck-yes'. Most of all, he can't believe that Harry's found a position in which his leg twitches but it doesn't hurt too bad. Keeping an arm behind and a hand on his abs while riding him must be incredibly difficult for Harry, but he pushes himself up and squeezes himself down with vigour, once, twice, thrice, and then, as if he wasn't already going to die after all of this, Harry starts talking.

"You and your fucking nightmares and your fucking lame leg."

The fog rises in his mind already, letting him feel only his scalding hot tears trickling from the corners of his eyes and the walls of muscles which clench around every millimeter of his pulsing cock.

"Who the hell gave you permission to be a dickhead and act like that? You snotty snob, you're less than dirt, you think yourself so high that you can do anything you want, well, fuck you."

Harry.

Harry.

Harry.

He tries to say it all in the name, his need, his want, this galaxy of sizzling... feelings that swirls in his chest everytime Harry so much as looks at him. It comes out wrong, of course, like everything else he says, but he tries. Goddamn, he tries.

"You're a poor excuse of a man, and a piece of shit when it comes to your leg. Fuck you pathetic whining and your madness, you're nothing, you don't deserve anything. So lay back and suck it up."

When he realizes he's coming his eyes are inondated by tears, his pillow is soaked underneath him, he's spluttering all over, but most importantly, Harry's pulled out and he's wanking them both slowly, because he came too. He came at the same time.

He can't believe he was so lost underneath the blur he missed the only time Harry came at the same time as he did.

He whimpers from the sensitiveness and Harry's hand leave them. Then, kneeling on the edge of the bed, he says

"Happy birthday to me."

and walks out.

Later,he finds five baby wipes on his pillow, right next to his ear.

.

.

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.

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Your birthday is in a week.

He steps into the kitchen with his phone held out as far as his arm allows him. He's shivering with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Harry turns in the middle of a 'good morning', reads the text, then slams the marmalade jar on the table. Not strongly enough to make everything on it jump, but certainly enough to make him jump.

"Yes, it's in a week and if it pleases me I will do that every morning for the next seven days!" exclaims Harry as he looks down at the kitchen counter.

He watches Harry's back muscles twitching as the younger man clutches the back of a chair.

Obviously, he didn't think this plan through. He wanted to ask why Harry did that, not making him angry. Not that he's complaining, but... Harry's never initiated something.

Finally, the other man turns around, but he's not angry-Harry, he's more like Louis'-Harry, half-pouting and half-frowning, gentle eyes, a bit of a dimple, long fingers tucking the curls back in his headscarf.

"Lou, listen- I didn't tell you because I didn't want to push you all right? But I'm kind of.. a touchy-feely guy. All right? Kind of a lot. I like to touch, I love hugs, I love cuddles. Especially with people I like and get along with. And Louis, I like you and I get along with you, that much is evident. So I kind of want to hug you and touch you and cuddle with you all the time. So.... the shit you pulled these weeks? Day after day after day of absolutely non-existent human contact? You-You can't do that. Or, I guess- you can... If you don't want me to touch you, I get it, but at least... give me the signal for sex or...... like...... for fuck's sake, you wouldn't even touch a damn fork as the same time as I was!" finishes Harry, opening his arms wide to emphasize his point.

He has always acknowledged Harry's deep naivety for a man of his age. Harry wears his heart on his sleeve, yet he's always admired the younger man for that. He was sure Harry shared everything he wanted with him. But this outburst proves otherwise. He pushed Harry until he exploded, he did this.

He truly feels like the world's worst shit. He wants to type... everything, everything he feels and he's ever felt for Harry. But his arms are so heavy. The crutch is so light in comparison.

He looks at the copious breakfast Harry laid out for them on the table. Like every morning. He can't believe he pushed the younger man to keep such a secret around him. Something in his chest breaks, tiny, but it's like a dam has been opened.

Sorry.

he blurts out, but it's choked off by his sob.

Sorry!

He tries again. It's his usual abomination of a normal word. With the 's' being dragged in a 'sssh' and the spit being released all at once after that, in this case, in a pitiful sloshy 'r'.

He wipes the tears off quickly because he wants to be able to say it properly and across the blurry veil covering his eyes, Harry breaks down in front of him. He sags, his eyes widen, his arms drop.

He takes in a deep breath to raise the volume of his rarely used voice.

SOR-RY!

"Hey, no, it's all right, can I hug you now?" He nods quickly and he's immediately engulfed in Harry's embrace. He instantly feels bad for having accepted, he doesn't deserve comfort, damn it!

His crutch arm is useless but his good one, clutching the phone, goes to rest on Harry's back and tightens there, as his whole body shakes in mortification.

He hiccups through spit and splint, trying to say it again.

I'm sorry.

"Hey, come on, no, it's fine, it' okay, you said it. I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have done that, I don't have any right to do that, ambushing you like that. Did I hurt you? God, I didn't even stop to ask you that... Sorry Lou, I'm a shit partner."

He shakes his head vehemently and burrows his nose into Harry's collarbone to smother his sobs there. Since Harry's wearing a t-shirt, for once, he lets himself have this. The arm, too. It's not touching, he repeats to himself.

"It's fine, it's all right. I'm sorry Lou. It's all right." keeps on muttering Harry making them sway gently from side to side.

They hug for a long time, that morning.


	2. Strong

## Winter prayer

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He's come to know the day of Harry's birthday last year, when Anne postponed the date of their usual dinner to make it coincide with that day. Dinner was a noisy yet short affair, since Harry went out with his friends right after.

This year, he comes prepared.

He disables Harry's alarm clock on his phone, he brings out everything they need for breakfast, even goes as far as toasting the bread, and he gives Harry his first present, four tickets for the Bastille in Ferrara in the spring, for him, Niall, Zayn and Liam. Harry, of course, tries to complain about the VIP backstage pass, but he has none of it.

Lunch is delivered in a big box at the end of the bridge by the employee of a restaurant in Domegge di Cadore and he pulls it in while Harry is in the shower. Harry's face when he sees the dishes makes him grin for the entire meal.

After lunch, acting like on an afterthought, he gives Harry one of the best editions of Michelangelo's Rime(*) he could find. When Harry says that one gift is enough and why Louis did this, too, he says that it was simply sitting in his library, he's just giving it to Harry because he thought he would appreciate it. Of course, Harry poutingly agrees, and he discreetly grins behind his glass.

In the afternoon, it's time for the third gift, the big and scary one.

He checks that his cane with the metallic end is still well sturdy and pointy enough for the umpteenth time, then slowly wraps himself in outside clothes.

When he asks Harry to come with him because he has something he wants to show Harry, the younger man pouts and says that he doesn't need anything else, that Louis didn't have to bother. Unfazed, he merely flaps his coat and nods to the entrance with what he hopes is his puppy dog expression.

It must be close because Harry begrudginly obliges.

At the end of the (salt-covered) bridge, he swerves to the left, where, when he moved here, he found a staircase of large steps made of rough rock, to connect the lake house to the lake's shore.

He only uses it once in a while in summer, on really nice days. He wanders about a bit, then stealthily gets back inside, in the fear that someone from Calalzo might pop out of the impenetrable vegetation and find the Recluse outside, to everyone's amusement.

When he points at the rough, moss and ice-covered staircase to show Harry where they're going, Harry's eyes widen almost comically, but a second later he sets in motion with a determined frown and places himself between the steps and Louis, extending his hands, staring at him.

He is so puzzled, for a few moments, he bends his head quite like an owl. A gush of icy wind suddenly reminds him though.

Oh. That's right. There's no ice in summer.

Feeling like a stupid ignorant already, he's careful to tap his cane into the mossy spots as not to let Harry support him completely, but when Harry sets his mind on something it's a lost battle, and the younger man just sneaks his arm under his and supports him step by step.

Damn. This is Harry's birthday, he shouldn't have to babysit him today too.

At the end of the staircase, which seems short and shallow in summer, but seemed never-ending and steep just now, he feels properly embarassed already, so he briskly taps the cane into the shore's gravel, and hops ahead for a few meters. Then he turns to the younger man and playfully nods towards the rest of the shore.

Come on.

Harry's smile is worth the worst humiliations, and the companionable silence lets him take a look around from the defense of his scarf and beanie. He loves this lake after all. It's not Santa Croce alright, but it's a beautiful lake nonetheless.

When the fat grey clouds let a thin trail of light in, he indicates the light that shines on the water. Harry instantly gets it and agrees that it's a stunning view, his voice asthick and liquid as pouring honey, with that perfect hoarse and low quality.

.

.

It soon becomes evident that he, as usual, didn't think this through enough.

Harry talks leisurely about how good working from home is, and they walk approximately a hundred meters or so, when his leg starts to throb at every step he takes.

On a mental gloss, his jaw has started to hurt as soon as they got out of the house but that's fine, it always does that when he's out on the terrace and the splint won't let him get stuck anyway. It's his leg which is more bothersome.

Stubbornly, he grits his teeth and keeps moving on. This is Harry's birthday and Harry's walking beside him on the lake's shore and he looks happier by the second, and he wants to cherish this moment as a good memory for the both of them and reach at least the first curve. That is his intention, at least the curve he manages in the summer.

A few minutes later, his step falters. Damn, he could point himself better with his crutch, but he has yet to found an online shop which sells them with metallic ends ideal for uneven paths.

A few additional steps and it's the turn of the fucking spasm. He tries to calm it with his hand, but that means stopping, because he decidedly can't pin himself with his cane and squeeze his thigh with his free hand while still walking.

A few steps ahead of him, Harry turns around. He doesn't look at him, too ashamed, he stares at the dark grey gravel underneath his Vans, trying to think of how, how in the world has the thought that this was a good idea occured to him to begin with.

It should be Harry's special day. And he can't even make it to his usual spot. He can't even give this to Harry. He can do it in summer without a hitch, for fuck's sake.

"Oh my god. We- Let's go back."

says Harry in front of him. In a second he puts his hands on his hips and he can feel the pressure the bigger palms are exerting in trying to pull him up, trying to lift a bit of his weight from his own legs.

Fighting back a sneeze, frustrated and ashamed, he shakes his head.

No, he wants to reach the curve. He'll do it and his leg can go fuck itself.

He pins the cane and steps forward, but the pause pulled his muscles taut and the spasm increases. Now he can't pin his foot down completely. FUCK.

"Lou please, don't." murmurs Harry crowding in on him.

With an arm around his back and fingers coming to pry his from the cane, he feels his weight shifting, traitorous, against Harry's bigger body.

"What are you doing, let's go back, you're shaking too badly. We have to run you a hot shower. I'll massage you in the shower, how does that sound?"

He shakes his head because no, that sounds bloody brilliant, that sounds like Harry being his usual too-kind self and taking care of him, and this is Harry's birthday for god's sake, he wanted to do the contrary. The contrary, damn it.

Harry doesn't accept money from him anymore, but gifts for one's birthday are game, are they not? And he wanted to show Harry how brilliant he is, how brighter his life is with Harry in, how maybe, he wants to be braver and better than the depressing man he is now. Not this pathetic mess.

He takes advantage of Harry's support to grip the cane under the handle and pushes the man trying to stumble forward. However, Harry is quicker and steps to the side and by unexpectedly pulling the cane towards them instead of prying it away, he makes him lose some of his balance, making him fall against his bigger body. Shifting his thigh, he makes his bad leg lean completely against his and his arm circles his slim shoulder and settles on Louis' own.

"Hey, stop it, you're hurting yourself." murmurs the younger man onto his temple.

Heat starts to seep between their coats, and his leg spasms and shivers from the difference of temperature between one side, facing the cold wind, and the other, propped against a bigger, warm one.

He shakes his head and clenches his teeth in order not to whimper at his own stupidity. It's the only thing he can do now, shaking his head at his own idiotic plan, his own stupid life.

What the hell was he thinking, trying to take a walk with Harry? Trying to be something that he isn't. Normal.

"So.... piggyback or carried?" says the warm breath in his hair.

He shakes his head faster at the suggestion. Absolutely no, he'll get back by himself, he'll swim if he has to. Fuck his leg. Fuck his legs.

"'No' is not on today's menu, sorry sir." whispers Harry calmly.

"Piggyback or carried, these are your options. A finger raised for the first, two for the second one."

He grits his teeth so hard it feels like his whole skull is hurting, since this is the only means he can punish himself now.

He's never been so frustrated in his life. He'll never get out of the house, he decides then. Ever again.

Evaluating which option should be easier for Harry, he slowly raises his thumb and presses it against Harry's coat.

Silently, shifting his hand but keeping it under Louis' one, the younger man crouches down.

Harry looks up at him. And he wants to scream.

Yell at me. Mock me. Tell me. Tell me everything that I am.

His intention consists of hopping to be directly behind Harry, placing his hands on his shoulders and ease himself down. It obviously goes to hell.

Because he is him and his fucking body is useless, his bad leg once again remarks on the cold in that exact moment and with a last spasm, his knee gives out.

He stumbles on Harry then, knee first digging in his side and tries to stop his fall by placing his hands in front of him, but one slides on Harry's shoulder and the other collides with his spine. He scrambles to a halt as fast as he can before he slides over the smooth expanse of the crouching man's back and falls over in a most undignified display. He barely succeeds.

Has he or has he not just avoided falling right on Harry when the man offered him to carry him back home? Way to go, Tommo... Way to go.

Placing his knee on Harry's lower back, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the heat rise in his whole face like a reversed waterfall, he silently spreads his legs and circles Harry's neck with his arms.

Today is clearly not his day.

.

.

.

"Was this another present for my birthday?" mumbles Harry as they make their way back towards the house.

His legs dangle with every step and his bad one is contantly swept by pulsing stings of pain from thigh to calf.

At least, he thinks morosely, he already sent Zayn and Liam their three tickets for the private booth in a pub in Domegge, where tonight a famous (apparently) DJ should play that night.

It's their choice if they want to use them, he added, but Zayn replied that he wanted to go and of course he'll bring Harry, he'll make him have tons of fun, Louis shouldn't worry.

So he doesn't. Much.

He calculates that, depending how long Harry will insist on massaging him, he should still be in time to prepare himself for the night in all leisure.

Keeping this hope as his backup plan, with his nose pressed in Harry's scarf and his forehead on his silky curls - it's not touching, it's not - he shakes his head.

No, this wasn't a present. This was a fail of epic proportions, this was a mistake. Why was he even trying to impress Harry, why was he trying to achieve the impossible?

"You did something very brave for me, Lou." comes Harry's comment, stunning him.

"I don't know how I can ever show you how grateful I am."

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head frantically because no, that was not brave! He didn't manage to accomplish such a simple task in the end. It was so ridiculous and stupid.

Harry doesn't have to show him anything, to reciprocate with anything, there's no reason why he should. This is just something he wants to forget as soon as possible, and hopefully Harry will too, soon.

Thankfully, Harry doesn't say anything else until they're inside.

In the house it's just a soft 'let's get this off first' as he is eased down on his bed and 'i'll get the lotion, don't move' as he quietly sits on the closed toilet while the water warms up.

Despite his grumbled protests and pushing at Harry's shoulders, he finds himself sitting in the shower while Harry kneels just inside the edge, with his pants and jeans on but sweater-less, massaging his leg with the hospital's body lotion and a very focused frown.

He didn't even manage to keep his pants on under Harry's scowling persistence, so he's naked. The water's hot and the spasms and stings abide by the minute, under Harry's attentive ministrations.

The issue is, he's dreamt this scenario countless times. Or more precisely, he fantasized about this while he showered countless times.

In this shower, especially designed for lame people, he pictured Harry kneeling in front of him and sucking him off to oblivion. Harry would circle a hand loosely around Louis' dick, lazily, knowing that he wouldn't come, because the words in his head don't matter, he knows what he is, he needs someone else to tell him, and that someone would be Harry.

Too late, he pulls himself out of his hazy fantasies, and he sees his dick twitching alive just in time, thank goodness.

He means to cup it and keep it down, his erection's never full without Harry's words, but the movement is too sudden and Harry's green eyes snap at him. He flushes violently under the gaze, he knows because his cheeks start to burn quickly and not because of the water's temperature.

He adverts his eyes, while still keeping his partially hard cock down. He already thought this is his most humiliating day while he was getting a piggyback from the birthday man, but now he's sure, a hundred and ten percent sure. He couldn't feel more mortified than this if he tried.

Harry's strokes a stubborn line of tension on the side of his calf, down, down, he traces it to his ankle and cups his talon.

Staring at him, Harry raises his other hand, sneaks it under Louis' and circles the base of his cock. Before he can so much as react to the touch, Harry's licking the head from between his fingers.

A shiver runs through him and his heart starts to race as he hastily pulls his hand back to latch onto the shower's seat in attempt to keep himself grounded somehow. He must be more careful, he can't touch Harry, he can't.

He has no idea how Harry does it, but he keeps stroking his bad leg's lines of tension while he suckles his cock lazily. A dejavu from one of his fantasies comes across his mind.

The wet, soft pressure of Harry's tongue should be enough, but since he is like this and even with the combination of the hot water and his knots of pain being drilled out of his bad leg, his cock only grows half-hard, the bleary line between comfort and discomfort makes little whimpers escape his throat without him even realizing.

As Harry brings both of his hands back on his bad leg and bends lower to lick the side of his cock down near the soft thin hair and - god - lower still, he tries to concentrate to bring himself to a full erection, he wants to be, especially today, he's being enough of a-

"What a disappointment you are. Freaking cripple, can't even walk for five minutes alone before having to stop. How do you live with yourself, knowing you have to be carried like a child?"

He swings his head back and almost smashes it on the tiled wall as his cock softly slaps against his belly.

A cheek nudges at his good thigh and he spreads it wider obediently. Before he can process why Harry requires more room, he feels a soft warmth on his rim.

He mewls loudly in reaction, a part of himself is over the surface, feeling Harry's tongue lapping at the crease of his bum, but the rest is down, reveling in Harry's words. It's always so good to hear the plain truth laid bare in front of him, his guts are already contracting in anticipation.

In such moments he wants to give Harry everything. All he can give to a single human, he will gladly give it to Harry.

"You're a sorry excuse of a cripple. Going around trying to imitate healthy people when you're not. You're weak - pathetic - lame." Harry punctuates his words with massages on his inner bad thigh and open-mouthed kisses and suckles all over his crotch, and he can't decide which one he prefers the most at the moment. He wants to push into all three, the words, Harry's mouth, his hands.

The younger man gathers his spurting precome and after a couple of quick circles he slips two digits in. It's deliciously rough, just the right amount of abrasion to make his toes curls. Everything is perfect, the nudging fingers and the strokes, not to mention that his cock rests against Harry's cheek when the man raises himself to suck on his happy trail.

Filthy.

he murmurs noncommitably.

It comes out in a bubble of spit, just an 'f' with something intelligible interspersed there. Although, as impossible as it seems, Harry must have heard it, somehow, because he looks up to him.

"Yes, you're filthy. A dirty man sitting in his cripple shower. Do you like sitting here, being cleaned by someone else, unable to do anything for yourself, needing constant help? Pitiful, worthless."

The fog thickens all of a sudden in his head and everything becomes slow and impossibly hot, especially between his legs, and when he realizes that he's coming, he opens his eyes to find that Harry has ducked to suck, swallowing and easing him off his high at the same time.

Thank fuck he's sitting already because he doesn't feel his limbs anymore, only his bad leg which is spasming more and more weakily. He's hot and sated and so happy he can't wrap his mind around so much bliss.

Supporting himself on Louis' good leg, Harry stands up. He thinks Harry's going to walk away now, but the younger man merely pulls his jeans and pants down in one smooth, quick motion and his perfectly erected dick slaps on his abdomen as soon as it's freed.

He thinks he must have read the calendar wrong this morning and it must be his birthday instead because Harry kneels down again, his healthy legs widen easily, and he starts wanking himself. But Harry doesn't look down as he usually does, he stares at Louis.

Harry's eyes are heavy-lid, dark, the green irids reduced to thin circumferences and his puffy, almost-red lips are ajar, and he thinks this is the best man he will ever hope to stumble upon in his life, the hottest and kindest.

Shocking him, Harry spirals his whole arm around his bad leg, his hand resumes on stroking the back of his bad thigh, without squeezing but as if he's doing it without any clear purpose, and Harry's forehead comes to rest on his bad knee, even rubbing himself against it with a low, throaty groan, terribly similar to a purr.

"Lou." moans Harry, wanking furiously, his eyes closed and leaning on his scarred, useless knee.

"Louis." repeats the younger man.

He has absolutely no idea what is going on, so he doesn't do anything. Just stares, in awe, at this man, and wonders what kind of positive thing he must have done in another life to meet him, to have him in his life, even for this brief period, even if tomorrow he is gone. he will treasure every memory of Harry, from the most everyday, 'dull' things to the hottest ones.

"Lou." moans Harry so quietly under the water's noise, and he comes too, crying out feebly, his hand darting to squeeze Louis' thigh higher, up to his buttcheek from under the shower seat.

He stares and stares at the half-drenched man, with his curls-covered head leaning on this bad thigh without any real pressure. He stares as Harry raises his come-covered hand to smear it.

Like he claims it or something.

Little does Harry know, he is already lost to everybody else since the moment Harry first touched him.

He fell in love along the way, so Harry doesn't need to act like this.

Like....... he's worshiping him or something.

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## Better half

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Most days he divides his time equally between reading material for his books, and writing said books.

Some days, like today, he has a constant stream of words figuratively pouring from his head to the screen. 'Figuratively' because the movement is not direct, of course, he mediates it with his fingertips. But those rare days the river of material is so abundant and fast that he has to bring his laptop everywhere.

It's the first thing he touches in the morning, at an ungodly, cruel hour, he brings it to the corner gym upstairs to type something in-between his weight exercises, he types sitting on the toilet and he types in bed until his eyes droop and he has to content himself with jotting down notes, key words, about the scenes which are still streaming behind his eyelids.

Thank goodness, Harry's been here with him for nearly two years now, so he hasn't fainted since then. But if Harry, before their cohabitation, prepared him a mountain of food and, frown full etched in his face, drove away hoping that Louis would eat regularly, he is now careful from A to Z.

Harry doesn't talk to him while he's working, as usual, but not even for the casual reminders that he's going into town to fetch something, or that the weather forecast called colder temperatures so he's going to raise the heat a notch, or that he's going to close the living room's door because he's frying aubergines for the Parmigiana.

His food is balanced between healthy and substantial, and he has a small double breakfast and an unavoidable snack in the afternoon, with something ready in a small container in the kitchen for a midnight bite if he feels like it.

Harry reminds him of the shower and when he gets in the bathroom the water is already running hot and sometimes Harry even reminds him of his intended gym time, and all this among other domestic stuff and being in general a terrifically nice human being.

His chest swells every time he catches glimpses of the curly-haired man from the corner of his eyes, quiet, discreet, humming a Bon Iver song.

Once, he later realized that Harry put one of their small plaid blankets on him, and that's why he wasn't feeling cold anymore. He had to smother the desire to go in search for Harry in the house and kiss him then.

Fortunately for his body, these bursts of inspiration last a few days, and finally a late-morning, Harry finds him watching a documentary on his laptop (research for his book), curled up on the couch and finishing his tea.

"Hey." says Harry smiling, to which he spontaneously reciprocates.

The volume is rather low but the narrator's voice still carries, so Harry leans sideways to look at the screen.

"Oh, a documentary? Can I watch too?"

He nods easily in answer.

He hovers his hand on the cushion next to him but doesn't dare pat it, he doesn't want to make anyone sit beside him if they don't want to and patting a seat has always looked more like an order than a suggestion to him. Harry is not anyone, though, and makes him flush by sitting immediately on the intended spot.

With an enquiring glance, he taps Louis' knee with his own, a feather-light touch that makes his stomach burst into a million tiny sizzling shards of excitment. He nods to the space between them minutely, unable to look in the man's green eyes, and sees Harry's leg shifting until the constant discomfort of his own weight is lifted from his.

He sags back, quietly bursting with embarassment and happiness, and finds an arm waiting for him. Surprised, he sits back up and turns to Harry in enquiry.

"Sorry. Er.. I thought- Can we...?"

Cuddle. Harry means cuddle.

It's a new concept, in his life, that he can touch another gay man affectionately without sex being involved.

None of his previous lovers wanted to cuddle with him, they found his twitching leg disgusting, as his bizzarre mouth. But it's a work in progress, living with Harry. Small steps, small touches. A caress on the shoulder, a quick hug and sometimes a less than quick hug.

This is the first time they'd cuddle since Harry revealed that he's a touchy-feely person. Failure and embarassment cast a looming shadow on the near future, but he can't help but want to try to be better for Harry, to repay him in any way he can.

The fact that he wants to be able to enjoy human contact again in order to be with Harry in a more 'normal' way plays a major role. Changing his approach to things is scary, but if Harry is on the opposite cliff, he kind of looks forward to the jump.

Wordlessly, he leans back and this time he doesn't jerk upright at the arm. Nor does he flinch when Harry's huge hand starts to stroke his arm up and down lightly, or when Harry scoots closer and their sides are pressed against one another.

After a while, he starts to relax. The documentary is very thought-provoking and he takes digital notes on his phone of what he has to check further, key words, nothing more.

By the end they talk about it, that is, Harry talks in his usual slow drawl and he types text messages.

When he sneezes, turning away just in time, he can't find a kleenex in his sweats' pocket and as he motions to get up, Harry hands him his, and he accepts it instantly.

A thought strikes him then.

Is this what 'being domestic' looks like? They're not being domestic. They're not.

They're just two men living together and bringing each other off on a semi-regular basis. Or, well, Harry is, he is entirely too dependent on the younger man in all things sexual.

Harry must be looking around for a potential partner while he is staying here, he must be waiting for his ideal man, or boy or woman (Harry isn't picky in that sense), with whom he will feel complete, a better half. When that day comes Harry will leave and he will...... begin to plan how to cope.

Thing is, if he starts thinking about this in terms of couple domesticity, all husband-y and stuff, when the other shoe drops, it will feel like a boulder and it will bury him and it definitely won't be nice.

When he notices how close they still are, before he can shy away, Harry slowly leans in. Since his mind and his body are two utterly contradictory idiots, he is ready for it this time and he keeps himself still and his mouth ajar. Plump lips fall on this, both hands are around him arms, loosely, the ghost of a touch, and warm breath inondates his face. He catches a whiff of persimmons and bread sticks before he opens his eyes without realizing he closed them.

Harry leans back, smiles with his whole face and leans forward again. This time, Harry's more experienced tongue traces his bottom lip carefully and traps it in a small bite, and heat blooms in his belly, rendering him incapable of the smallest of sounds.

Afraid that Harry is waiting for a moan or a sound of pleasure, he tries to make it visible with his face when Harry retreats. His unsure gaze, though, flickers from green eyes to rosy lips, uncertain of which one he prefers most right now, but he makes Harry chuckles so at least he's done one thing right, he muses.

Harry must be laughing at his incompetence but he doesn't care from the moment their lips touch again, and after a tiny rotation, he feels a tongue licking his lips again, from corner to corner.

When he leans back, Harry grins cheekily, and shifting away from under his bad leg, he stands. Carrying his empty cup away, Harry throws a satisfied smile behind his shoulder, taking a considerable portion of Louis' sanity with him.

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He is quieter and pliant that night in bed.

Although he's the louder one, his keens and whimpers are toned down a bit, even if Harry fucks him from behind, a rare occurence.

Harry is a breathing contradiction in himself. Between the sea of pillows he lies upon, the whispered words against his spine - that he's a child, boneless, takes it passively, the most boring of the individuals - the gentle hand that supports his bad thigh and the strong grip on his hip to keep him lifted, and his unrelenting jabs against his prostate.

Everything sends him mixed signals of roughness and gentleness. It's always been like this with Harry and he cherises every single little contradiction.

He comes for ages, that night, blissful and crying into the pillow.

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## Family dinners

After Harry submits the work of the Ministry's website, he is asked to retranslate the outdated English prescribed forms, website and if he's deemed capable enough, future contracts that are requested in English or Italian by Italian Embasses abroad.

Harry, of course, is absolutely elated. Not because he has another contract, longer and more remunerative, but because he can work from home and can decline Cortina's municipal invitation to re-translate some of their touristic signs, which would have required ground work.

He can't help but feel both proud for the Harry's taking-off career and miserable, because Harry has to endure more of his constant needy company, and has to take care of him twenty-four hours a day for who knows how long still.

He has paid for the renewal of Sky Premium, since Harry hasn't after the first free month, when the man himself plops down on the couch beside him and reports excitedly once again about this new job. Harry's excitment radiates from his dimples and his tiny jumps on the cushions and Louis can do little else than stare at him and try not to grin with him.

They're rudely interrupted by the bell and when Harry hops up to take it, his phone chimes with his family's group chat. There is a single smiley from Lottie.

Mh? He ignores that, as Harry calls him from the entrance.

"Lou! There's a girl here saying she's your sister!"

SHIT!

He scrambles upright, ignoring his leg's protests and stumbles to the door. The bridge's camera doesn't reveal a stranger in search of the famous recluse, as he hoped. It's actually his sister.

He opens the bridge and when he hears the nearing footsteps, he unlocks the door and swings it wide.

It's really, truly Lottie. What.the.actual.fuck.

"Hey Boo! Looking sleep-deprived as usual!" she exclaims grinning at him, although when she hugs him tightly, she adds "Missed you."

She's already bombarding him with questions when her eyes fall on Harry, who's waiting a couple meters to the side.

"Oh! So you are my big brother's babysitter!"

Yeah, it's Lottie alright, he decides in the end. He thinks about leaving the big suitcase she's left in front of the door outside, but begrudingly pulls it inside.

"I'm not-" murmurs Harry, but Lottie's faster, she hugs him and starts patting his shoulders animatedly.

"Don't worry, your reputation's safe with me! Harry, right?"

"Yeah.."

"Good. You're sleeping with my brother, right? So my bed's downstairs, right?"

Harry looks at him from above Lottie's perfect blonde locks, terrified.

He sighs and shakes his head, already tired of this.

Harry doesn't need to worry about it, he'll deal with it all.

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Apparently his dear sister's work in Venice wrapped up early, so she thought the best idea was to come visit her dear big brother - read: interrogate the mystery man who's got the guts to live with an anti-social cripple - until her flight back home, a few days later.

Thank goodness their mother raised her to decency, so, after the initial jokes about shiness when they tell her that they don't sleep together - technically, they don't - she agrees to take the sofa bed on Louis' floor.

Of course, Harry insists that he can take the couch instead, but he glares at her as he shows her the phone screen: she absolutely isn't to bother Harry and it's the couch or sleeping with her 'dearest brother'.

As everyone in their sane minds would do when faced with the prospect of sleeping with him, she quietly agrees to everything he proposes.

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During the meals, when she isn't in one of the Cadore(s) sightseeing or shopping, and when Harry doesn't work and therefore she doesn't have an excuse to strike up a conversation, she unashamedly interrogates the curly-haired man on every aspect of his life.

He does his best to look apologetic the whole time, yet it does nothing to stop his shame.

Not only that, his sister is more than happy to intersperse her third degree with comments about Louis. Especially how he talked about nothing but Harry at home, so everyone was very eager to see this wonder man and check if Louis was taken care by a real person or a fictional character.

Harry scowls at the suggestion. "But my mom-"

"Oh, of course Anne told mom about you. I think she sent her a picture, once? But when she moved we didn't know if Louis was making you up just to make mom stop worrying and, let's face it, a healthy man in his late twenties locked up with our brother in the middle of nowhere? Not very likely. Poor mom, she lost the bet."

What bet??

He practically shoves the phone in front of Lottie's nose.

"The twins didn't tell you? Count me shocked. Mom bet your 'new Harry' was a nurse from the hospital. I bet he was a misfit teenage boy doing community service."

Harry, unfamiliar with his family's mocking style, looks properly appalled.

Who won? he types.

"Fiz. She said Harry stayed with you because he translated your books and you were covering him in money. So romantic, right?"

Hiding a grimace, he nods absent-mindedly for that was too close for comfort.

Truth to be told, he asked his editor once, if a certain Harry Styles couldn't become his new translator for his Italian pseudonym. But she said Harry didn't have enough credentials and she couldn't fire their regular based on that only. He truly thought about paying Harry in secrecy so that he could have stayed with him and he wouldn't feel so shit about locking Harry up here with him.

Thank god, Harry is too busy protesting his intentions to Lottie to notice his inner turmoil, and it gives him the time to quickly recover.

Explaining how matters truly stand is wasted breath with his family. They know how he loves. Slowly, then all at once. He loves too passionately, giving too much of himself, and when his partners walk out on him, he wallows in misery until another sympathetic soul passes by.

Fortunately, before he moved, his lovers were all quick-witted individuals who understood how much baggage he is and soon made their ways towards calmer shores.

Since having moved here, he's been the Recluse of Cadore's lake, or for those in the know, the Recluse of the Lake House, or more colloquialy, simply, the Recluse.

Raising a slice of tangerine to his mouth, the loud 'toc' of his jaw resounds.

Without the constant, loud clicking of the cutlery, Lottie zeroes in on him, grimacing in horror.

"Must you do that?" she demands.

Her own conjugation of their mother's "Doesn't it hurt to do that every time?" and Daisy's "Ewww, stop that!".

Mortified and suddenly back in his family's house, where everything is made of dusty, massive pieces of furniture and covered in brockade, he adopts the same behaviour as he did at their table. He flushes, mumbles an apology and tries to finish his business as quickly and as incuspicously as possible.

On the opposite side of the table, Harry looked positively horrified, but as he opens his mouth, Lottie has already changed the topic, again praising Harry and the infinite patience he shows by taking care of their big brother, even if he is like this.

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Recalling that meal, on the terrace while having a long-due sigarette, he raises his gaze to the grey sky and catches a glimpse of an airplane headed North.

Lottie's just left on a red, sleek rented Alfa Romeo, so it can't be her plane. Yet he likes to think that he's watching her go back to the UK to report everything in great detail.

How brave, how self-sacrifing, how kind of Harry to keep living with him, alternatively playing house and byronic hermits with him. Indulging every whim of his, without even been paid, all the while haunted by his oppressive obsession-turned-love. Let's get him a medal!

He sighs in frustration.

Seriously, why is he getting so worked up for this? It's the truth, it's the bloody truth. It's about time someone recognizes the titanic work Harry is doing here.

Although he can't help but dread the moment his mom will call and tell him that she found a nice, discreet, quiet nurse who can take Harry's place because, really now Louis, we don't want to keep a young man locked up like that, do we? You've had dozens of nurses before him, you'll love this one.

He sighs again around his sigarette while he pulls at his hair, desperation and anxiety filling his guts.

He doesn't want to wake up in his life tomorrow. He really doesn't.

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Dinner is a quiet affair, that day. He tries to eat as discreetly as possible, but he finds that most of his food has to be chewed, and that means clicking his jaw every time, not to mention the loud 'toc' sounds when he has to open wide to let the bites in his mouth.

Maybe if he excuses himself with a migraine, he thinks, looking down at his mostly-full plate.

As he motions for his glass, a hand appears to rest above his.

"Louis. You all right?" asks Harry regarding him smiling, but the corners of his mouth are dropped a bit and his eyes are painted with worry.

He hates to be the cause of that look.

Aware of how much undeserving he is of Harry's comforting touch, he brings his hand to his lap. Maybe he should take his leave now.

"You know I don't mind your jaw. Right? You can eat however you want."

His throat constricts instantly. Of course he knows that.

It's just... If he were braver, he'd tell Harry. That during these two years he's been coming back a few days before him, consulting with Anne about their flight, so he can readjusts UK-him and LakeHouse-him.

He sits at this chair, munching random stuff, and hopping around aimlessly with his crutch, settling from his family's self back into his own self. It takes days for him to go from miniscule bites and more miniscule meals to their usual, Harry-standards.

If he were braver, he'd tell Harry. How he munches and chews quietly while sitting at his family's table, without any loud, irritating, disgusting 'toc's, without any humming or nodding in pleasure at how good the food tastes.

He's tell Harry how his crutch is taken away and he has to walk with a three-legged one, quieter on the old floors, because that's what the doctors gave him and that's what he should use.

Without a second look to the younger man or his meal, he stands and goes to the bathroom.

Locking himself in, he switches on one of the lights and stares at his reflection.

He opens his mouth, the loud clack resonates along with the discomfort.

He weakly punches his cheek.

He opens it again, and it hurts a bit.

He punches his cheek harder.

He opens his mouth and his jaw hurts and he punches himself, over and over and over.

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That night he lies in bed with the whole side of his face throbbing in pain, when he hears Harry's muffled steps coming into the room.

He pretends to sleep, because he's a coward like that.

He feels Harry's fingers removing a lock from his eyebrow, the duvet being pulled over his shoulders and finally, ghost-like fingers carding through his hair.

His whole body relaxes under the touch but for his twitching leg. Reveling in the sensation, he fights against the instinct to open his eyes.

After a while, Harry sighs, his fingers leave his locks, and a tiptoeing sound exits the room.

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He gives in. He can't see the nonsense he's writing anymore.

Trembling, clutching his phone like a piece of armor, he walks into the kitchen, where Harry is bowing on the sink to polish it of the day's stains. Once he's beside the taller man, he types

I want you to fuck me on the kitchen table.

Harry jerks upright so fast his knees slam on the cabinets underneath the sink. Harry stares at him in open disbelief, mouth ajar, colour settling on the sides of his cheeks, threatening his ears.

You don't want?

"I... I... I don't want to hurt you!" blurts out Harry. "What about your leg?"

He knows that his leg is the major cause why he can't boast fucking (more like being fucked) on any available surface, but... if it's Harry...

Just this once, then. Can't you hold my leg up?

"I...I--" stutters the man.

He closes his eyes and pinches his nose. When he opens them again, Harry's ears are completely red among the locks that are not kept in place by his headscarf. He, on the other hand, feels strangely calm.

"Yes, I can do that! But-" He types quickly.

Can you tell me about my jaw while you fuck me? Please.

He always feels like begging when he outright asks the younger man to do freakish stuff for him. He feels the beginning of his own flush.

"Yes. I can do that." repeats Harry, but this time he looks resolute, his expression's hard and neutral, as he always looks like when he's telling Louis the truth.

He doesn't know what problem Harry seems to have with saying what Louis is out loud, but he understands that it's freaky for himself to get off on it, so he just appreciates the efforts Harry goes through, whatever they are, and walks into the bathroom for a quick shower and retrieve the necessary.

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Contrary to his fairly idealistic expectations, his leg does hurt.

He ignores it like he always does, but Harry doesn't. He stops fingering him in order to place a chair under his knee, hoping that being propped up by the chair's back will provide the angle his arm can't.

It doesn't, but he tries his best to pry Harry's attention away from the spasms to himself, moaning, squirming and above all, fucking himself on Harry's fingers. That does the trick quite nicely in his humble opinion.

The room's dark, only the night lights illuminating the walls here and there.

There's a dripping sound which makes him frown because Harry never leaves the sink ajar. A minute later, he realizes it's the lube dripping from his arse to the tiled floor.

From his position on the table, his good leg dangling open as wide as he can keep it, his bad one on the chair, his cock lies half-hard on his thigh but he doesn't care, they both know how fast Harry can get it to fullness. He feels incredibly open and vulnerable but he's not scared, Harry is right here with him after all.

The younger man stands in front of him, fingering him and constellating his chest and collarbones of bites and hickeys. He loves when Harry does that, Harry knows that too, he's indulging Louis already.

When his bum starts to sting from the hard surface, Harry gently and oh-so carefully lets him down and spins him around. He shivers at the feeling of a hand slowly pushing him down and forward and pinning him there, but he's still not scared, instead, a choked mewl escapes him when Harry's lube-slick erection breaches him.

The slaps they soon start to produce resound incredibly loud in the room. Maybe it's the change of settings but he flushes violently with the volume of it.

He's still dripping, but down along his thighs this time. His good one quivers at the chilly night air on his damp skin while his bad one twitches against Harry's, who's valiantly trying to keep him down with long strokes on his back and alternatively caressing his bad thigh.

When Harry's cock finds his prostate the sparks of pleasure jolting his body clash in contrast with his semi-hard but he doesn't have to wait long.

"Your jaw is disgusting. The sounds it makes and the way it draws back by itself, it's just disgusting."

He whines, dragged out and loud, like a child who's seen sweets at a fair but his parents won't let him have. Heat plummets in his groin, a small focal point, and he feels his cock growing under the table.

Harry's rugged breath comes from above his nape for a few seconds, then everything becomes hazy and he starts floating.

"Nobody told you it's bad table manners to make a ruckus all by yourself just to open your useless mouth?"

His fingers twitch on the smooth surface, he tries to close his fists but his body doesn't respond anymore. He's not there anymore.

Everything's slow and misty and the only action left to him is wailing, like a child, because he is. Harry gives him what he wants and in his world begins and ends with his words. The truth is out there, he can bask in it. Harry said it, everything's all right now.

Along his whimpers, from somewhere far he can hear a dripping sound.

"Everyone thinks you're unsightful. You make them uncomfortable. Seeing you opening your mouth so wide for small bites, hearing that sound as you chew. It's a good for nothing mouth and you still insist on upsetting people with it. Shame on you."

The dripping is steady and the plusing heat in his groin sits heavy and tight. The fog is heat and words so he doesn't know what his body is feeling anymore, cold or warm, he doesn't care, he just wants release. He wants to be reduced to pieces and be pushed off the edge. It's so good, it's the best fuck he could have ever hoped for, why can't he just let fucking go for a fucking second-

He feels a nail scratching his cockhead at the same time as teeth sink in his shoulder and the double sting does it, his bad leg spasms and hurts from somewhere in the back of his mind, he presses his forehead on the dampened warm wood, his hands clench and unclench uncontrollably.

Somewhere there is a small splashing sound, like liquid hitting the floor, and a slick milking motion between his legs before it becomes uncomfortable.

Tears of shame mingle with tears of relief and bliss. He's too happy to put his thoughts in a logical sense yet.

He stays in the position even if Harry nudges him to turn around, his leg must hurt.

But he shakes his head, scratches the table and he whines loudly as he pats his bum. Harry gets it and comes on him, a familiar warmth covers him.

It's perfect.

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## Elegant attire required

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After his mother called Harry and proposed a nurse as his substitute, even by trying hard everyday to come up with at least one good reason why Harry would stay with him, he finds himself grasping nothing plausible in the end.

The day Harry received that call, he fucked Louis to oblivion later that night, his good leg hanging over Harry's shoulder, and his bad knee being propped as high as it could go without spasming.

He felt it for days afterwards. It was fucking brilliant. Whatever his mom told Harry, kudos to her. He can't stop grinning like an idiot every time he recalls it.

However, the doubt still remains.

Why is Harry enduring living with him? What is he providing the younger man with which outweights the epically enourmous baggage trailing at his heels? Because whatever that special something is, he wants to stock it up for years to come, decades to come, because he's a selfish bastard like that.

Particularly confusing is the fact that Harry has accepted his editor's invitation - she called him directly, the sneaky hag - to their biannual formal dinner.

This anniversary begun with his editor's decision to periodically check if he was still alive or if his ghost was sending in the work, chained in this world by literal 'unfinished business', and has now turned into an excuse for both of them to dine at a fine place once in a while. His treat, of course.

Horrifyingly, when Harry notices that he's ordering his suit online he pleads to go out shopping.

"I need a suit too, Lou. I know a good place!"

It's just for one night...

he types, grimacing. Harry kneels on the wooden floorboards beside the couch and rubs his cheek softly on Louis' thigh, puppy-mode full on.

"I hoped we could go shopping together for once..."

Louis' sigh is met with a cheeky grin.

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To make Harry figuratively 'pay' for this excursion in town, he directs him to the Armani shop first.

After having politely declined the clerk's rushed offer to help him down, the younger man tries to blend with the background as soon as they step in.

Unlucky for Harry he knows how to play at this game by now and he shows to the clerk a text message saying that his friend needs a suit too, and Harry is left trying to fend for himself against two other very elegant, very eager-to-help men, while he himself is shown five hundred shades of blue.

Harry's politeness wins in Louis' favour and he's rewarded with a stunningly hot sight as his companion exits the changing booth.

With low-heeled boots, sleek black trousers and half-opened button down from which his tattoos poke out, Harry looks like a pirate who is going to a wedding. In other words: hot as fuck.

He ignores the darkened and unfocused look Harry throws to him in order to point at the younger man's mop of curls, turning to the waiting clerks.

One of them promptly fishes out of thin air a perfectly matching fedora, which he has fun adjusting it on the curly locks. When he steps back, Harry's meeting his grin with a matching one of his own.

He cares shit about himself, so he just indicates the both of them and gives the clerks a thumb up. The employee who welcomed them inclines his head in understanding and excuses himself back in the shop, likely to prepare absurdly elegant boxes.

Well this wasn't a total waste of time, he considers back in the pickup on the way home resolutely ignoring Harry's protests.

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Harry and his editor click instantly. No wonder there.

He finds her well, the only difference is that he thinks he sees the lines around her eyes sooner when she laughs than he did six months ago. Oh well. She's still a wonderful, dangerously cunning woman.

"Oh you're too kind Louis. You're properly gorgeous yourself but I hope you know that already." she remarks after she reads his message.

He waves at her dimissively before retrieving his fork. She's found another good place. The lights placed in narrow creeks in the walls give them an overall purple shade and for the life of him he cannot understand why, but there aren't strong smells around or gusts of air from doors left open and the private booth's chairs are comfortable, too.

Much to his enjoyment his editor still interprets all his gestures and hummings correctly in a matter of seconds. He's never failed to appreciate that in the people who approach him.

Once or twice, Harry suggests his own translation and Louis' flushes as he nods in confirmation. His editor complains about being fired and 'young recruits these days' when that happens, but she smiles brighly at him, raising suggestive eyebrows which he promptly rolls his eyes at.

"Did Louis tell you about how we've come to work together?" she asks Harry as they dig in the dessert.

"Nope. But it's all right. I don't want to snoop."

There is zero accusation in Harry's tone, if there is something, there's kindness and patience.

It is he who feels the accusation clawing at his shoulders. He keeps his secrets to himself and his past closer still, while Harry is no less than transparent and non-judgemental with him. That's why when his editor asks him whether she can narrate it, that he can trust her not to say anything more, he nods without second thoughts.

Harry stares at him, frowning, opening his mouth to speak, but his editor begins.

"Well you know that... No wait, you don't know... Um... Well, it happened after the year Louis had slayed all the prize-rewarding literary contests he could find."

"Wow. Seriously?" the awed smile Harry sends his way makes his palms sweat already.

"Oh yeah, he was brilliant like that. Is. And you know how you can't send anonymous works or pseudonyms or they won't even look at it? You have to attach your ID's photocopy. So Louis slayed 'em all.

An old friend of mine who works for another publishing company, one night we were meeting up, he was boasting about this new talent he found, this kid who had the attitude to demand a pseudonym, but he would show him, he would trick him into revealing himself, he told me.

Now... I was a in a bad mindset at the time, you know? My work wasn't what I expected to sign up for, and the pay... Let's not go there. Anyway. Money, work, my passions, I didn't know which one was more important anymore at that point, I only cared about selling copies and making as much money as I could.

So I approach this kid and I agree to everything he asks. You should have seen him then. Selling the author's image plays such a big part in the market now, pseudonyms are so few because they're big risk hazards and, well... so last century. But this kid was so sure of his talent, of his abilities, that he met me head on and i thought 'who cares, he'll step down when his copies won't sell'. Boy, I've never been happier of being wrong!"

"Did you sell well?" asks Harry smiling at her.

"Well? Dozens of thousands in one year! And that's not even the best thing about it!" she turns around to regard him with a proud smile that makes him advert his eyes as fast as he can.

"He reminded me why I was there, why I chose this job. His writing style was so brilliant, I started to enjoy reading his drafts as I started to welcome everything else that came with the job again. He truly helped me see the light of that particular tunnel." She concludes, looking back at Harry, and their combined proud grins prompt him to hide behind his glass.

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.

Much to his dismay, when they walk out it's not late enough for the restaurant to be as half-empty as it was when they came in. On the contrary, it's still buzzing with people at this late hour. Nobody's eating anymore, but they're all drinking and chatting the night away.

His pace is not one which enables him to pass by quickly and be done with it. Quite the contrary. He tries to tap his cane as discreetly as he can, while Harry and his editor keep his pace.

The stares, the whispers, the pity are all equally mortifying, but a thousands times more so are the surprised expressions.

And he knows why.

Harry looks like a pagan god who descended the mountains to demand his rightful tributes. He shivered just by looking at him during the whole evening, every time he deemed it safe to stare, so he understands their need to do so, but...

On one hand he wants to tell them to stop, Harry is his.

On the other hand he wants to ask them to get him away from him so Harry can go back to normal people, people who can walk normally alongside him, who aren't at the mercy of panic when threatened with social interaction and aren't constantly on the leash of such grim thoughts.

If only... Wait.

His Harry? His? Really?

Since when has he become an idealistic?

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.

.

Still soaked in such thoughts, he misses to catch the tone in Harry's words when they are in the pickup, halfway home.

"Don't take the suit off when we get home, alright?" murmurs the younger man.

Mh?

He doesn't need to type anything, because he hummed that out loud with his surprised timbre. Harry flicks him a look, and if he hadn't seen the man eat for the past three hours he'd say that that's hunger right there in his green orbs.

"I want to fuck you in it."

states Harry conversationally.

His feels his own eyes widen automatically before he can turn to the night landscape. He stares at the darkness outside the vehicle, trying to gauge where reality ended and his fantasies begun. Has he left the restaurant sleeping and he's dreaming? Or is he already sleeping in bed now?

"I.. Er.. If that's okay with you?" adds Harry, sounding uncertain and apologizing at the same time.

He pinches his hand and- Ouch! Okay, not a dream. .......Jesus.

He realizes he hasn't confirmed it yet so he quickly nods.

"Okay." echoes Harry and none of them comment on the car's increasing speed.

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.

.

He likes getting out of the pickup by now. It means Harry carries him for a couple meters. Yes, it's childish as fuck but he doesn't care as long as there aren't witnesses around and he feels very warm all over for a brief while afterwards.

Their heat system's timer having been previously set, it's pleasantly warm inside when they make their way in. Never underestimate spring in the mountains. Amateur mistake.

His train of thought is cut off as he's suddenly reminded about his not-dream in the car when Harry pins him to the door and attacks his neck like he's, in fact, hungry for it.

He sighs in relief about the reality of it all when Harry's hands come up to cup his bum and squeeze gently. Trailing upwards, Harry leaves open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and licks his lips before attacking the other side of his neck. There he sucks loudly and Louis knows the skin will blossom into a purplish blob soon, but no one will find him complaining. If not for the meaning behind it he accepts hickeys for the looks Harry throws him when he sees his own marks on him. Borderline dirty is a euphemism in those moments.

Harry scoots closer until he rubs his hardness against his groin, making them both groan in each other's collarbone. Leaning back Harry mutters something about lube and staying here, so he obeys. It's not like his jelly-feeling legs would have been ready to carry him anywhere soon anyway.

It's not his fault if is his mind starts to wander and he cups himself loosely in his trousers, and then, really, he's thinking about sparing Harry the trouble when he unzips himself and takes-

"Louis, hands off." at Harry's reproach, his hand jerks away on its own, as if scorched.

From the shadows of the hallway emerges the younger man, his pout softly illuminated by the night lights.

"You know it's mine." he mutters staring at Louis' dick and he doesn't, he swears to god he doesn't moan at that. Maybe he does, maybe not, it's debatable.

His bad leg is soon hoisted around Harry's hip and a short while later Harry has already managed to find Louis' prostate with three fingers while having discarded as few clothes as possible. This is definitely a new record.

It means in reality that while Harry's shoes, trousers, belt and pants lie on the floor, he has his trousers and briefs kept around his good thigh by his own hand under Harry's imperious glare. His bad leg was freed of the fabric with a pout but he thinks that if he lets go of his trousers entirely Harry will seriously halt his movements until they're in place again. A theory he absolutely does not care to test.

As he tries to keep himself hard, a jab at his prostate sends contradicting spikes through his guts. It's good, it's fantastic, there's even warmth in his lower belly, but his cock- His frustration is cut off by Harry's voice.

"Fuck, Lou, you look like sex on legs."

HUH?

In his ribcage stripes of cold panic seep through the thin heat and his mind flashes red alarms everywhere.

No, why, that's not true, he is not, why is Harry spouting this nonsense? Harry is, while Louis is nothing. Is Harry making fun of him? Why is he doing this??

"You can't even stay hard for two seconds, you worthless cripple." grunts Harry against his collarbone and he whimpers at the sudden spike of blood rushing in his cock, filling it up second by second.

"You have to be brought there and helped through sex and orgasm like old men, you're pitiful. Or you do it just to be coddled like a spoiled brat."

He whimpers loudly through his tears as he nods. He doesn't know what he's agreeing to but in these moments, as he sinks word by word, it's half agreeing with what Harry tells him and half nodding in encouragement. Yes, like that.

He stares while Harry masterfully tears the packet he had set down on the entryway table with his teeth and rolls the condom on himself with one hand, the other still supporting his bad leg when his own breath suddenly hitch. It's different doing it in a vertical position with so many clothes on. He's sweating more than usual, obviously, but it's different, the familiar heat in his guts is mirrored by those strange flurry tiny pieces in his stomach he sometimes has around Harry. He doesn't know why but he can't help feeling like this.

"You wish you looked good in a suit, you're ridiculous, trying to hide behind a carnival's mask, your parade must have looked like carnival to those people."

Harry's voice wrenches the heat inside him tighter and he starts to cry and wail between their close bodies. He clutches his trousers with one hand but he has to prop himself against Harry's shoulder with his other one for lack of a handle or anything else at his side to grab onto. Harry has his shirt on so it still doesn't count luckily.

"Going around in your taylor suit, showing off, you're a clown, you're a beggar in king's clothes. You saw their stares, they must still be laughing at you and isn't that the only logical reaction?"

He whimpers again and starts to nod frantically because, yes, he was thinking so too before, looking at his ridiculous suit in that ridiculously elegant box and in the middle of those looks.

The tip of Harry's cock comes to enlarge his rim and Harry circles it with a bonus finger. The sensation sends sudden spikes of pleasure down his spine and he mewls with how good it already is through the fog. Bringing his trousers up, he pushes himself down and yes, fuck yes, is that Harry's finger too? It's all good, he'll take anything if it's from Harry.

The finger slips out as Harry's dick nudges deeper inside him but it keeps circling his rim where their bodies unite and if Louis' bad leg wasn't secured at Harry's hip, it would be jerking like a cut-off tail at the feeling. His good one can't because it's the only one that's keeping him up but god-fucking-damn if it's not divinely good.

"Even if you put on your best man's clothes you're still a pathetic old man. Hopeless. Helpless. Lost. You can try all you want but you'll never be like other people, you're less than them and they're right to laugh at you. "

His tears pour out at the same time as his precome and Harry makes a rumbling sound in the back of his thorat, like a growl, and his whole body resonates as he's slammed against the door, Harry's cock pinning him there.

He opens his eyes but he suddenly wishes he hadn't because of Harry's eyes. He always stares at him so intently, with something he doesn't dare to look closely at. They're impossibly close now, so whatever resides in Harry's eyes is even closer. He can't look at it, he doesn't want to understand. He shuts his eyes again and Harry pulls out, he feels the cockhead almost slipping out as he's about to whimper but the erection pumps in swiftly and pins him again and his breath is cut off in his throat.

As he's slammed against the door another couple of times, the fog clears for a moment, and he finds that he's grabbing the front of Harry's shirt with one hand, while Harry's own free one is displayed on the back of his head. Oh, well, that explains why he's banging the door with just his waist. Another slam, and he whines loudly, the heat is coiled tight low in his abdomen and he's so close, his only means left is wailing and hoping Harry will take pity on him.

"There's no way that fancy clothes can change who you are, a cripple, a coward. You're a lurker who's going around in drag." He cries loudly, his mouth wide open, because yes, he thought so too, he was, at the restaurant when everyone was watching.

He must have spluttered out something because Harry remarks

"Yes, everyone was watching. The hermit of the lake house going out in costume. If they only knew. What a path-etic-whiny-mess you are." Punctuates Harry with his thrusts.

The waving motions and the words combined are too much, the fog thickens, his tears and spit mingle down his chin, he's soiling Harry's shirt, he's pinned by a bigger frame, familiar, comforting.

But in the waterfall of blurry sensations he consciously keeps Harry close, lost forever if he lets go now and he's rewarded with a tiny explosion of heat in him.

Deep inside. Deeper than he ever imagined.

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## La diga del Vajont

Since the Embassy's contract is late, surprise surprise, Harry accepts Cortina's municipal offer and drives there daily to work.

He takes notes and follows Harry's instructions - although formulated in questions and punctuated with 'if you have time' - as best as he can. He takes out the pans or pots, oils them or fills them with water. He takes out the rice or cous-cous - never pasta in the evenings - and/or the ingredients when it's time, and cuts the vegetables or what he's sure he won't mess up.

Harry comes home, finds everything there and always, always smiles and thanks him from the hallway, since he's usually returned to work in the living room by then. He tries to smother his own smile and not show how bashful he is about Harry's gratitude for such little things while he types and watches the younger man discarding a few clothes in his way to downstairs. He will come back to the kitchen with as few clothes on as possible. Typical Harry.

One day Harry's late and his phone says unreachable or dead, he puts everything back and orders pizza.

From years ago the delivery men of the takeout places he contacts online or via text message know what to do, but it's been a while since he's had takeout. Since he's Harry started living with him, that's for sure. Harry says he doesn't like takeout much because they're so stingy with sauces or toppings, whereas they put the correct amount if you go there directly.

When Harry barrels in the house ,out of breath and asking for forgiveness, he quickly types to describe the situation with a hint of fear for not having contacted the other man first, but if he was driving... Harry's smile when he reads the text cuts his doubts off and they end of the evening finds them sprawled on the sofa downstairs, having connected Louis' laptop to the huge tv, watching Marco Paolini's "Vajont".

In the back of his mind and in the lazy strokes of Harry's hand around his bicept, something calls for domesticity and partners and his hishis.

But he doesn't listen to such a silly voice, and they decide to watch the video again to make sense of the dialect words they didn't get at first.

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.

.

Because of Marco Paolini's narration his curiosity towards the Vajont increases. He had heard of it years back, but going there to see with his own two eyes was at the time, of course, out of question.

Something's changed now though. There is Harry with him.

He broaches the question step by step. A text message here, another text there, carefully-cut tomatoes on the background..

Did you like Paolini's story about Vajont the other day? (Ignoring Harry's previous prolific commentary on it)

Have you ever been there? (see above)

Are you curious about the Vajont events?

How do you feel about dams?

Are you afraid of heights?

He tries almost everything that comes to his mind, but Harry is not stupid, obviously, and it's not long before-

"Do you want to go there, Lou?" he asks while they're having breakfast, on a weekend.

Immediately, he shakes his head. Absolutely not. He? Going somewhere outdoors? Pfff. As if.

A few minutes later.

"Lou, you can tell me, you know? Do you want to go to the Vajont dam?"

Making the spoon clank in his haste to shake his head, he leaves his mug in the sink and locks himself in the bathroom.

He didn't ask for anything, did he? He didn't mean to. Harry just asked him if he wanted to do something so he must have come across as asking, as demanding. When is he going to stop acting like a spoiled child? Is Harry going to forget this? He hopes so. He didn't want to ask, he didn't mean to ask for anything! He deserves nothing, what was he doing, demanding Harry should do something for him when he's already managing everything on his own, and Harry's too kind to refuse so he'll do it even if he doesn't want to. He'll drag Harry somewhere he doesn't want to and he won't forgive himself for that.

How can he still be so blind and stupid? He didn't ask for anything, he didn't mean it, he said nothing. He wants to disappear, or go back in time and struck his fingers the first time he so boldly wrote the first message, or grovel in front of Harry begging him to forget all this senseless incident.

He never learns. He deserves nothing. Why does he never learn?

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.

A few hours later he's calmed down at last and he's enjoying a rare sigarette and fresh air when Harry comes to sit on the bench on the terrace.

He takes in the rarity of the situation because he's standing, as he likes to do while he's on the terrace, for as long as his stupid leg will permit it anyway, while Harry's sitting. It's one of those special times when their usual positions are reversed.

"Louis.. i don't know what to do. I know you want to go to Vajont, why do you deny it when i ask you?"

He stares at the lake as Harry speaks, his heart in his throat, constricting it painfully.

Even if the days are getting longer minute by minute, the mountains are trickier. If it's not cloudy the sun is hidden by a nearby mountain after a certain hour. And, apart from summer, clouds are a daily presence in the Dolomites. He's heard of towns where they have three hours of sun a day during fall and winter, if it shows up at all.

"Is it because of me? I got it if you want to go, just... maybe text me from time to time. So i don't worry. I know it sounds clingy but... It's just because I worry about you, like... like a partner. Look, you'll get there with the same driving company as- what-"

Angrily, he shoves his phone in front of the younger man.

I don't want to go wihout you. I want to go WITH you.

Before Harry can say anything, he adds quickly

forget it, i didn't say anything

He makes to step inside but Harry hastily gets up and blocks the way.

"I want to go, Lou, I want to go, too. Been reading in the internet since we've watched the video, actually. Do you want to come with me?"

He scoffs, adverting his eyes. It's just his moods that he's being offered what he wanted in the way he wanted yet he's still refusing. It's his moods and his panic and anxiety all muddled up inside him in strange ways he doesn't even want to comprehend. What did he do to have such a stupid, complicated mind, why can't he be linear and simple like any other normal person?

He feels so stupid. He's being childish and he knows it, but he can't help being so fucking irritated at everything, at himself, first and foremost.

In his frustration he doesn't know he's shut his eyes closed and he's grinding his nails in his thigh as hard as he can until he feels long fingers trying to pry his hand off.

"No no- okay-" Pleads harry, taking his hand. It's too close a call, though, so he slides his hand until Harry's fingers are circling his wrist loosely. He doesn't dare to look higher than the other man's sweater, Harry must be sporting that worried frown of his and the knowledge that he caused it would be too much, he doesn't feel having another episode today.

"I did this shit, didn't i-" comes Harry's soft slow drawl. "Please don't say no, it's true. I didn't understand, sorry."

And it's fucking typical of Harry to apologize. Why must he be so kind? It's all Louis' fault, like it always is.

Whining, he wrings his hand free and types

Don't say that, I should say that! I should grovel and disappear!

"No no no, don't do that, i don't like it when you do that. Why should you be sorry?"

For not being able to ask you something without fucking everything up genius!

"You didn't fuck up. You didn't." says Harry and he shakes his head furiously. Not true, it's not true. He did.

"Look, I know you're uncomfortable asking people things-"

He freezes, Harry's words hitting bull's eye. He stares at their legs, suddenly gone numb. He desperately tries to get his mind back on tracks but he's immobilized.

"Lou, seriously? I think I realized that quite soon.." mutters the younger man and he looks away, to the side, ashamed.

"Louis..." sighs Harry.

He wants to pull at his hair, pull and pull, so that he can yank his personality out of his body and chuck it out, throw it in the lake or down a cliff. It's a good-for-nothing personality and he hates it.

"Lou... How about.. Let's level it and try from the beginning, what do you say? Let's forget what we said, both of us." Harry's hand is raised to his crutch forearm, caressing it lightly. He stares at the motion, still numb.

"Okay? I won't say I'm sorry if you don't, either. So... Vajont, yes? How about next week?"

Still crushed with shame and humiliation, he types slowly, carefully.

I would be honored if you were to accompany me on a trip to the Vajont dam when you're free.

There's a pause as he listens to the wind rising to rustle the shore's trees.

"Right. Can I hug you now?" he would have lost Harry's whisper if he wasn't standing so near. Numbly, he hods.

As he's engulfed by Harry's strong arms he imagines himself seeping the warmth out of the younger man's healthy, magnificent body.

Draining the life energy out of him.

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He does know Harry's charm is magical, but he didn't imagine it would affect the misfit boy of the community service he contacted.

With his level of disability increasing on uneven surfaces, he was careful to contact beforehand Longarone's municipal offices to forward his case.

His writing style managed to provide an almost voluntary, (non homophobic), barely-of-age high school student who is paying for community disruption or something like that.

However, has no idea when the boy, Dan (Daniele), became their vallet. Harry is giving him a piggyback up their last climb in the tour guide's path, while the boy is skipping jovially as he carries their bags, his cane and Harry's camera. He even takes random pictures at whatever catches his eye.

He sighs from his raised position upon Harry's back. Really, he should have imagined this.

Up on the dam's peak, the guide reaches the climax of her narration.

He listens attentively, quivering in excitment, pages and pages filled up in his head already, when he hears the tell-tale tapping sound on the concrete signalling him that his bad leg is twitching. Frustrated but not overly mortified - they were careful to choose a quiet day and a quiet hour, their group consisting of very few people - he walks to the guard-rail and leans there, barely hearing the guide, but sighing in relief at the pause in his pain.

A few seconds and Harry turns to him with his camera, lowers it and frowns, then approaches him. Wordlessly Harry slides an arm behind his lower back and he successfully pries him away from the guardrail, still frowning.

Are you afraid of height?

curious, he types on his phone and holds it up between them.

"No. But I don't feel fine seeing you leaning on the edge like that." mutters Harry still frowning and he tries to clamp down the fluttering in his stomach.

He turns back to the guide to listen and tries to ignore his bad leg as best as he can, hoping he's not grimacing without realizing. Harry's right behind him, he thinks he'll walk away and keep on taking pictures around but there's a light touch on both his sides and then he feels Harry's chin coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Is your leg hurting?" mumbles the younger man.

He shrugs non-commital, making Harry's head bob with his motion, and schools his face not to cringe when the guide makes the group approach the opposite edge.

It doesn't show from below but the dam's peak spans three meters and a half. Not exactly a couple of steps. For him anyway.

Like always, he tells his legs to suck it up and detaches himself from their position, when Harry, stepping beside him, whispers

"Will you let me do one thing?"

He searches Harry's expression but there's just openess and trust. A plead for trust, more precisely.

He nods. Harry smiles for a second, then disappears from his peripheral vision. Behind him, Harry's familiar bigger frame slots in with his, especially Harry's leg bends his bad one until his hip shifts weight gradually from himself to the younger man.

It's a tricky position, and he starts to slide down, but Harry's arm comes to circle his belly loosely and like that his body is hoisted from sagging naturally and he can also relinquish his grip on his cane a bit.

The guide's voice carries clearly, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the strong gusts of air too. He listens taking in every bit of information, but at the same time he can't help but revel in the heat of Harry's body, specifically in the rhythymic rise and fall of Harry chest' against his spine and the puffs of breath in his hair, accompanied by the delicate natural shifts of the bigger body here and there.

When the guide notices them, she smiles brightly as she did the first time she asked whether they were on their honeymoon. To which Harry answered that they were indeed living together, and to Louis' crushing embarassment, he didn't outright refuted the woman's supposition.

However, the elder man in their small group notices her smile and in addition he turns in the same direction of her gaze. He, on the other hand, frowns disapprovingly at them.

Razor-sharp fear grips his throat, but before he can shrug Harry off and step away, Dan appears out of seemingly nowhere and takes a wide stance, parted legs and hands on his hips, between the old stranger and the two of them. He can't see Dan's expression, naturally, but the old man looks at the boy and soon turns away, shrugging in a bored manner.

Harry promptly takes a one-handed picture of the scene, which makes him smile.

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.

Once the tour is over they form a small circle with the guide, enganging in a long discussion about the dam, Longarone, Erto and Casso's stories and so forth. Even Dan joins in with what he heard from his uncle and what he read. Seeing the boy joining in the conversation so seemingly easily makes him feel more and more socially inept. His heartbeat is his throat, his breath catches every couple of seconds and he's seized by panic the whole time.

It's not a long stretch saying that he'd never have approached the knowledgeable woman without Harry's aid. He mediates his texted questions and he keeps an arm around his elbow or his waist alternatively, reading his moods as he feels either bold or extremely out of place. He knows that he must look childish and submissive in front of the stranger but he's too panicked to move, let alone denying himself Harry's comforting contact.

After the guide departs, Harry openly asks him not to turn around every time he tries to take his picture. He looks as though he's been waiting the whole day to say it.

He frowns and shakes his head in answer.

"But why?" mutters Harry poutingly, standing close to him. He shakes his head again.

"Please, Lou, please? Just for today. I won't post them online, did you think I'd do that?" exclaims Harry in the end, his volume increasing as he scowls at his own suggestion.

He shakes no again, mirroring the other man's scowl. Harry sighs in relief quietly, then resumes the slow torture. His syrupy tone seeping in Louis' ears and creating a small nest of warmth there. That, or his blush is starting to become like Harry's, rushing to the ears.

He fishes out his phone then, his last chance.

What do you need my photograph for, then?

"-well first, for myself. Plus Zayn and Liam asked me how you were doing but I don't think they're trusting me much on that, and I'm sure they'll be glad to see you're okay, at least in photo."

He sighs quietly and notices Harry is staring at him, eyebrows frowning a bit, pout full on.

"Please?"

He sighs again and nods in defeat. Harry, instead of grinning like he thought, smiles proudly and closes in for a quick one-armed hug.

It's the second public contact after earlier and even if there's another couple a dozen meters from them on the peak, and Dan is looking down from the edge, the sizzle of thrill mixed with shames clogs his throat nonetheless. When Harry returns to the other edge and the camera's shutter clicks, he is positive the flush is making its detestable appearance.

"Look, a penis-shaped cloud." Instictively, he looks up to the sky, the quick 'click' being the tell-tale sign of the deception.

He looks down to glare at Harry, but after another picture, the curly-haired man grins and feigns innocence with a shrug.

"Can you look down to the side?" Obliging, he does, thinking ruefully about the poor picture of the stunning landscape he is ruining. At least he trimmed his scruff carefully yesterday evening.

"Can you look at me?"

He does, and Harry's eyes pop up from behind the camera, his gentleness pouring out like a small waterfall from the green orbs. Incapable of resisting, his mouth morphs into a smile on its own, even if he tries to shy away from his own facial muscles.

Harry emerges from the device completely, his smile so bright it could light Longarone up for a whole year.

"Dan, ci faresti una foto?"(*) calls Harry.

The boy runs immediately, because that's the effect Harry has on people, everyone becomes attracted to him like moths to the light. Louis strongly relates.

"Yeh." says the boy. "Mettiti li."(#) he adds, even though Harry is walking towards him already.

Suddenly hyper-aware of the cane and his disheveled, careless appearance, he shies away from Harry. The younger man stops in front of him and fear strikes his ribcage so hard it's like he's been thrown into icy waters. The motion was purely instict, he didn't want to offend Harry. But now he's fucked up and Harry will get angry.

He looks down to himself, willing the cane to disappear and his scrawny body to become beautiful and healthy, a body that can stand beside Harry's in a picture without ruining it beyond comparison.

He sees a hand slowly, slowly, making its way to his arm. A caress, and he's looking up. He thinks Harry's smile could melt antarctica if the man turned North. But he's looking at him and he can't help feeling fluttery warmth all over already, damn his traitorous body.

"Salve."(SS) whispers Harry smiling, out of the blue.

Salve. he mouths back, not knowing what the other man is playing at but fighting his own smile nonetheless. It's hard not to when one is in front of Harry.

"So... I saw you from there, sir." continues the younger man nodding at the side vaguely. "And I thought... Aren't you that one famous writer?"

His grin bursts from his face before he can feel it and he restrains it quickly with his head bowed. When he resurfaces, Harry's smiling innocently.

"And you were standing there... On top of this beautiful dam... Looking all dashing with this wonderful cardigan half-buttoned..." says Harry suggestively, and although he scoffs immediately at the adjective, he absent-mindedly closes another button, the fourth from below.

His cardigan is blue with golden buttons, old, worn out and impossibly huge on him. Its ugliness should have its place in the books of the history of clothes. What a silly thing for Harry to say. He looks up and he sees Harry has followed his fingers' movement, the man still looking down at the buttons. His heart skips a beat, though he himself doesn't know why.

When Harry meets his eyes again, there's something there, but it flees too quickly even for Louis to decide to acknowledge it and ignore it.

"So I braced myself and I've come to ask you if I could take a picture with you? As a memento for meeting my favourite writer, you know."

And he knows it's a rhetorical question but he nods anyway, fighting tooth and nail not to let his grin out, feeling incredibly shy even though he knows it's a pretend play.

By the time Harry has looped his arm behind his back and slots himself in his side, he's relaxed and leaning both on the cane and Harry's firm body, and he can meet the camera's digital eye properly.

When Dan starts to walk towards them, he turns around as Harry's arm leaves him, but he finds the younger man's already looking at him, his smile there for the world to see, and he feels impossibly lucky, thanking whatever god is letting him have this moment.

Suddenly, Harry turns to Dan, in front of them.

"Un'altra?"(deg) he asks and before he can protest, he feels Harry's muscular arm circling his nape and his shoulder, Harry's head leaning to touch his and sees a familiar bigger hand holding up the peace sign.

He looks down at Dan's jeans while the shutter goes off, imagining Harry's grin besides his cheek. He hopes Harry will delete this one. He's suddenly tempted to delete them all by himself, then he gets rightly mad at himself and his too rapidly changing moods.

Slowly, Harry turns him to the side, and still looking down he's pulled into a snail-pace hug.

Harry holds him and stroke his back, while he props his chin on the younger man's shoulder because he can't breathe easily against his collarbone. He doesn't know what gave rise to this hug but leaning back he notices Harry gazing at him with an enquiring look and he feels so ashamed he just nods.

Sometimes he forgets how much Harry is sensible to his moods.

He nods to himself as Harry thanks dan. He's fine, he's okay, he's just being his usual, idiotic self.

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His bad leg shivers in pain all evening, and Harry goes to bed with a deep set of worried lines in his forehead, even after the massage he practiced.

He would like nothing else than to ease the worry off from the younger man, but he doesn't know how to do that without soiling Harry's skin by touching him, so he smiles sadly until Harry turns to walk out of the room.

Then, he's just sad.

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It's with the utmost shock that he stares at Harry, in bed one night, after Harry pulled him up to make him straddle him and stroking his erection through his briefs he asks him if he can wear the cardigan while they do it.

"S-Sorry, is that too weird?"

asks Harry horrified and suddenly shy, his eyes darting everywhere but him. And it's not, it's not that it's weird, of course it's not. But it's the winter cardigan he accidentally packed when he flew back in January.

The cardigan's made of a high-quality mix of wool and cotton but it's worn out and huge on him. Not just funny huge but ridiculously huge.

He wears it at his family's house, specifically so when they have guests, so he looks like a proper posh old crippled man, and he relishes in the way his mother wrinkles her nose at him half in disgust and half in reproach. For all the new ones she gifted him, he refuses to wear them. Thankfully, the crutch and cane are the only things his family forcefully takes away from him, with the excuse of doctor's orders.

It's not that he hates the garment. He kind of loves it, actually. But at the same time, he knows that he looks like an old geezer and he wouldn't want to get caught dead with it on outside of his mother's house.

He realized only once he was in the pickup, a few days back, that it was that blue cardigan he picked, and not his other blue one. And after shrugging it off in the vehicle, he only wore it because it was too windy on the dam's peak. It was secured in Dan's arms in the meantime.

Still shocked, he shakes his head at Harry's question, and the younger man looks suddenly relieved, sheepish smile not far from his curving lips.

"Where is it?" whispers Harry, and he types the indications.

When Harry comes back from the closet with it, he sits up and Harry holds it out. After he's put it on and lied back down Harry's reaction is stunning. Hovering above him, hands on each side of his chest, he watches as the man's eyes darken, the colour being blown off by the pupils, and more hypnotizing, if possible, Harry's cock slowly rises until it's erected and alined in front of his pelvis.

'It's just a worn out old cardigan' he wants to type, but suddenly Harry bows his head to nose it, smelling the hems and his chest, his eyes closed, and thought evaporates from his mind. He watches, rapt, as Harry does the one, two, three lowest buttons, then he pulls Louis' briefs down slowly, still staring at the cardigan.

After being propped up the usual pillow, it must be his impression but he thinks Harry pouts a bit while he fingers him. He's too busy not dying from embarassment, so he realizes slowly what Harry silently wants, as his fingers push his hips up with a strange but real intent.

Harry's fingers leave him as he slides on the bed until he's leaning on the thick pillows against the headboard, not sitting up completely, but not quite lying down either. It's the right move. Harry's cock twitches visibly and he hastily inserts his fingers back in with an added fourth while staring at his torso with a ravenous look.

After having his prostate prodded for what seems like the millionth time he locks eyes with Harry for a moment and he's finally granted his desire. The younger man rolls the condom and lubricates himself abundantly, then ducks to nose at his cardigan again.

"You look like an old man. Wrinkled, sad, full of regrets. Embarassed."

He feels his cock filling up underneath Harry's chest while Harry's cock slides in easily. The sound of lube-slick latex sends his mind in short-circuit from both embarassment and anticipation. He clenches his fists on the edge of the mattress and feels his lips tremble, the corner of his eyes spilling on their own.

Harry pounds into him tentatively, once. Then he hoists him a bit higher, grabs the headboard too and bottoms out.

"Hiding yourself in big clothes. Your scrawny body. Your lameness. You just become the old man you are, true to yourself. A coward." Mutters Harry against his chest.

He shuts his eyes as the thrusts become more erratic but a moment after the fog gets so thick the world begins and ends with Harry's words and the spiralling tightness inside him.

Time becomes a fleeing concept and he can measure it just the increasing heat between his legs. Through his tears he sees Harry's arms muscles twitching with effort, and his own thighs tremble above Harry's thick, healthy ones. He doesn't know why he's not crying out like he always does, when he realizes that he's too down, too numb, and he tries to resurface. It's strange, Harry didn't say much, but something has made him sink deeper than usual.

Bit bt bit, the room is enondated with sounds. His loud wailing along the tiny slaps Harry's relentless rhythym produces. Harry's quiet pants, the squelch of his cock fucking him, and the occasional creak of the headboard they're both holding onto. Ashamed, he tries to tamper his volume down, biting his lips and whimpering.

"Tucking yourself in, locking yourself up, playing the role of the noble recluse, while you're just a pathetic little old geezer with a ridiculous cardigan. You're laughable."

Keening loudly, the heat pooled below his belly spirals all of a sudden, his bad leg starts to twitch and he cries out in relief, barelling against his release. Only, this time Harry doesn't pause his movements, still sliding against his prostate with every thrust, he squeeze him out of his orgasm.

When he has enough wits to himself to open his eyes again, he sees that he's still coming, while the base of his cock is kept up by Harry's hand and his bad thigh being stroked by another. The sight is so hot that he keeps coming until, he reckons, his fucking soul comes out.

When Harry's hand leaves him he can only imagine what a mess he must looks like. His groin, Harry's abs and whole hand are covered by his mess, plus his usual tears, spit and sweat. He feels dirty and gross and he doesn't want Harry to see him like this.

Harry, on the other hand, stares at him intently, like a madman on a mission, for a few seconds, then his face set into a resolved mask, he thrusts up.

The stretch inside him is heightened by the fact that he's resurfacing but he's still high from his orgasm. His arms shiver with the intent of keeping the position but he rests his head back on the pillow, bracing himself for the sensation.

The spot Harry's cock keeps hitting sends shocks of pleasure through his muscles until he's writhing, shivering mess. Harry fucks him like that until he feels the ghost-touch of a damp hand on his collarbone delicately sliding between his flessh and the cardigan off one shoulder, then carding down, stroking him, skin and fabric. It's such a deep contrast with Harry's unforgiving thrusts than he closes his eyes, trying to gauge any sense in this.

"Louis." he hears in front of him, but he doesn't dare opening his eyes. He clenches his pelvis muscles with the remains of his strength, wanting Harry to let go, too. All of a sudden, he feels Harry sagging against him, groin to shoulders, and hot breath on the already sweat-damp spot underneath his ear.

"Lou." keens Harry softly under his breath while he comes.

He relishes the feeling of heat inside him like it's the last moment he's going to live on this earth.

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(*) Dan, could you take a picture of us?

(#) Go stand there.

(SS) Hi. 'Salve' is the formal version of 'ciao', it's used between students and professors, youngsters and adults and if used between two strangers it indicates they don't know each other, if used between adults who know each other it stands for respect and a formal environment.

(deg) Another one?

## Fragments of you

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Without looking at the enthusiastic email his editor has sent him about the last draft he just submitted, he trails downstairs quietly.

Harry asked to be woken up in the afternoon, arguing that if he wakes up to the sound of his alarm clock during the day he's bound to stay in a shitty mood all day long.

He wonders how much he himself would sleep, had he come back from a concert at 8 in the morning. He knows that it wasn't just that, the group of men went out drinking and probably napped for a couple hours before driving home, but still yesterday Harry didn't even try to nap, so wound-up he was for the concert, he must be proper tired. But he asked... So.

On the counter underneath the rural painting, on the portion of wall in the middle of floor, diving the day from the night area, are several framed photographs which he's seen in passing the few times he's visited Harry's floor. The Styles family. Harry. Mountains. The lake. In addition, in the middle he finds two of the pictures Dan took on the Vajont dam.

The first is the picture Dan took after Harry so ingeniously coaxed him out of his bashfulness. They're both looking at the camera, their smiles and postures relaxed, leaning on each other. He ruins the photo, of course, but at least he doesn't look like an utter moron.

The second one though, is not a photograph he even suspected existed. Dan must have taken it without him noticing. In this their bodies are still so close, turning to each other. The him in the picture is looking at Harry half in awe and half in.... something he doesn't dare to consciously dwell on. And Harry... Harry is looking at him with something gentle yet raw in his eyes, in the curve of his smile. He can't even look at it, he can't.

His heart pounds in his ribcage and he takes several deep breaths. When he looks up the pictures are still there. Harry put them in matching silver frames. The photos are not huge but they're not small either.

Suddenly, Harry appears from the open sliding door, making him jump in shock.

"Oops. Sorry Lou, didn't mean to startle you." He croaks out. He's barefoot, obviously, in loose sweats, briefs and a headscarf, his casual indoors attire. There are small bags under his eyes, only half open, and he's scratching his side absent-mindedly.

A passing thought tells him that if he wasn't gone for everyone else already, he's sure he'd fall in this exact moment.

Still upset, he forgets if he's meant to shake his head or nod. He moves to retreat quietly, but darts a last glance to the picture while stepping away. Harry notices and follows his gaze.

"Oh. Yeah. I hope... it doesn't bother you." mumbles Harry, scratching his chin, - he'll probably shave soon since he hates scruff - as his eyes fly from the pictures to him and viceversa in a nervous manner.

Why that should bother him? The question rises to his face in the form of a confused frown and a slight shake.

"That I framed them and put them here..."

Hastily, he takes his phone and types

Why would I be bothered by that?

"I dunno, er... s' that you look upset.... " says Harry looking at him worringly.

It's just... It's just that he was thinking. That even though he knew about the first picture, the second... is a touch too close to home for comfort.

He's always thought that his feelings were helpless and clingy. He's always known that Harry is too good for him, that he doesn't deserve him and that Harry is staying with him just to have someone to bring himself off at hand and he's just waiting for the right person to come long.

But if what is portrayed in the second picture is not affection for a friend, even for a fuck-buddy, if there's even a tiny, the tiniest speck of feeling there... What that feeling would resemble? Would it shine in tandem with his own, perhaps? Maybe not now, but one day?

For that if there's even a remoted possibility Harry feels something for him, he should tell Harry. He should tell the younger man how passionately he loves, how easily his love could be seen as obsession by everyone else, how destroyed he will be when Harry walks out on him, as he's bound to do one day.

Harry should leave before that tiny, tiny sentiment becomes something deeper. It sounds absurd to him, that someone would ever love him, it sounds complete lunacy, but if it's possible, he doesn't want Harry unhappy and tied by distorted feelings of habit-turned-affection for the unforeseeable future. He wants Harry to be genuinely happy and he can't give him that, not by being like this.

The worst of it all is the depth of his own feelings. Even though he shouldn't expect anything and he should be prepared to let Harry go at any moment and finally see the other man happy with someone normal, stop letting Harry take care of him like the saint he is and let him have a chance to build his own happiness, even though he knows he is consuming Harry's life, eroding his most important years, letting him rot away here with him...

Even though he knows, he knows all of this... When he saw that second, unexpected picture, he thought that maybe, maybe, he would want to keep it.

"Lou? What's wrong? Please tell me."

He'd like to see the frame sit on his work table in the living room. Or in the kitchen, under the calendar or at the edge of the counter.

"I can't tell if you don't tell me... Louis."

Or on the entrace table, so he can be greeted by it every time he goes out to stretch his legs, now that summer's approaching...

"Louis!"

If Harry walks out on him, at least he'll have something of him as a reminder. Even though he knows he's doesn't deserve it.

"Louis! Type something, please!"

No, that's right. He doesn't deserve Harry, Harry's picture, his memories of Harry. And he had the nerve to want to keep the frame close to him, to watch it everyday. To be happy.

He didn't learn anything, did he?

He never learns.

"LOUIS!"

Harry's in front of him. Since when is Harry in front of him? He looks disheveled, like he just walked out of bed... Oh, that's right.. He came to wake him up. He saw the picture. He thought something stupid. And now he's upset Harry apparently.

He looks down at himself, his leg twitches slightly like its usual, yet his body feels as rigid as rock, aching all over. So that's what happened. But it's fine, it'll pass.

Harry's hand hovers in his peripheral vision, near his shoulder, shaking badly. He looks up. Harry looks desperate, scared, worried sick.

Huh? Why is Harry so upset, what did he do? His frown must be eloquent, because Harry steps back and scratches his eyes furiously.

"It's just... You were all... You weren't moving at all. And your eyes were so wide they looked a tad spooky and then... I thought you weren't breathing at some point, I thought, I don't know, you were having an attack."

Too close for comfort, he wants to scoff at the suggestion but he's in a tight schedule, the shaking will start soon and he doesn't want the younger man to see that. Without losing another second he sends a quick smile to Harry's way, glance at the photographs one last time, and walks away.

He thought something really stupid this time.

He knows where he has to go.

He knows what he has to do.

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A few days later, he finds the pictures on his bedside table.

They look brand new and they lack the silver frames, so he guesses Harry reprinted them for him.

He takes the first to measure it and order a nice, colourful frame.

He slips the second one under his pillows for the time being, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

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## Family's weddings

[Harry's POV]

It must be destiny when his mother tells him that he's also invited to Jay's marriage this time, because he was thinking of how glad he was to have had the idea of fucking Louis for five consecutive days before their summer separation.

He barely contains himself from texting his favourite man with the news, in favour of making it a nice surprise instead. He can't wait to see Louis' smile.

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Now he understands why his mother's always boasted about her friendship with Johannah to her other friends.

These guys are bloody rich.

Not only that.

Since it's a nice weather, everyone's out and about in the very luxurious restaurant's park. There are clusters of people everywhere. It looks more like a gala than a marriage, and most of all there isn't really a feisty atmosphere, more like a formal cocktail party atmosphere.

He knows that Jay was married once, but he thinks he missed some steps, since he heard, during the legal ceremony, from more than one person around him, several male names being exchanged while people were trying to guess the identity of the groom. That or they were just badmouthing the poor woman.

He thinks it was all a bit posh, from the abundant decorations and solemnity of the short ceremony, not to mention the pomposity of the dresses and suits and the seriousness of the guests. But now, hearing 'dear sir' and 'madam' everywhere, seeing teenage boys and girls minding manners like they're under torture...

"Mom." he leans in to ask without being heard by passers-by. "Are these people nobles?"

"Who? Jay's family? They were, darling, a long time ago, a rather low rank of nobility. Then they made their fortune from the Boer Wars onward and had another spike in the 60s. They fell from grace, Jay always says, what with her numerous children. But I think they're just well-off, things like nobility don't really count as much nowadays, do you think?"

No, he doesn't think. And he hopes to whatever god the nearby guests didn't hear his mother either. From their behaviour, it seems like things like that still do matter around here.

Another strange thing, is that at this marriage, during the ceremony and now at the party - no grand dinner in the restaurant because apparently eating is for the weak, there's a long, delicate buffet in a corner and tables scattered all around adorned with several bottles each - he hasn't seeing Louis yet.

On the contrary, everyone here seems to know that he's living with Louis, and random people have been pulling him in their circles to coax him to speak about himself and his life with Louis.

"Do you really live with that young man?"

"My my, you are a strong one, aren't you?"

"Boy, aren't you a saint. Good luck with that, I say."

"What? At your age? Are you sure he's not paying you?"

From men and women alike, he's been asked variations on these tones. Honestly, he's about to flip a table.

When he's finally let free by a table of elder men, reassuring them that yes, he's not a nurse, and no, he's not been diagnosed with mental instability, and he's at this point convinced that Louis either didn't come or went home right after the ceremony, he spots him.

At the end of this rather unpopulated clearing among the ones the restaurant reserved them, sitting at a seemingly untouched table, deprived of dark-green and golden bottles but for a clear-looking jug. Alone.

Mentally fighting for every step not to break into a run, he walks to his man. As soon as Louis sees him, he bolts upright, his chair flies back and lands on the grass carpet with a soft thud, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide with shock.

"Lou." he coos, smiling at him instinctively. He's gorgeous. Blue really compliments him. The fine polished shoes are elegant, the suit is a luminous darkish shade of blue, the white shirt is finely embroidered, his quiff is of another world, his scruff is as sexy as he remembered and what-is-that-thing?

There's a three-legged crutch hoisting Louis instead of one of his elegant canes like he imagined it would be. He's seen such a crutch helping people who cannot walk, who have spine problems.

He has zero issues with it. He has more than one issue seeing it in Louis' hand, though. Louis doesn't have spine issues for god's sake, it's his one leg, a crutch or a cane are more than enough! He quickly dimisses it so Louis won't worry and smiles brightly at the older man. It's not a hard task, since he's smitten from here to the moon and back.

Harry. whispers Louis feebly, and god, he missed his voice.

"Hiiiii, it's bloody great to see you here Lou. Finally! I've been looking all around for you, you know. How have you been?" he asks in his usual slow drawl.

Louis looks lost, though. His sky blue eyes dart looks everywhere, pausing on him in-between, but he doesn't want to follow those terribly mesmerizing eyes, he's too enthralled with his physical presence, he finally found him! Finally someone to talk with!

"What? You don't believe I'm me? I'm not a clone or something! I'll prove it, I know that you can't go to bed without a cup of tea. How's that, eh?" he tries to draw a smile out of the older man, but Louis merely stops his worried looks, stares at him gaping for a few seconds, then colour rises to his (very fine) cheekbones. Oh, Louis is trying to kill him this soon, good.

It's always a pleasure seeing the older man flustered in a positive way. One mental pat on the shoulder for himself. Good job.

Louis finally makes for his pocket and he already anticipates his thought in pixel format, when they're rudely interrupted by a jovial elegantly-clad man.

"Louis! Good evening sons." exclaims the newcomer then he turns to Harry and his hand is suddenly enthusiastically shaken. "I'm George, but you can call Uncle George! Er..."

"Harry."

"Harry! What a splendid name, splendid." the man's smile dims as he turns back to (probably?) his nephew. He notices with costernation that Louis' already shut himself down, head bowed and definitely not-positively flustered.

"Louis my boy, you didn't tell a soul you invited such a fine man. Really. But no problem son-" and Harry would have stopped him if he knew what is to come. The man pats Louis' shoulder so vehemently, he falters to the side. He can't help but stare in horror as the man smiles brightly.

"You look rather dashing! Hang in there eh! There now, Harry, I'm sure Louis could spare you five minutes to finally meet his family, isn't that right?"

and without other prompt, he's pulled away by the bicept.

Looking back he throws a "See you later, Lou" from his shoulder, yet Louis merely smiles sadly at him, slowly picks up the fallen chair and sits down. Of course seeing his man so dejected makes him want to go back to him but is propelled forward and forward and decency asks for him to be as polite as possible in such a setting.

What just happened though?

Uncle George leads him to a table of cousins of varying degrees. They all smile at him the same smile as everyone's, the same smile Louis sported when he first met him.

A single thought comes up in his mind.

Things are not looking good for him.

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"What a strange boy he was.."

"Was he? He was just rude, in my opinion. Always something to say, with that manner of his, he always had a comeback."

"He did. But I think she means the times he didn't cry."

"He didn't?" he asks on instict.

"Boy, no, he didn't! That was the weird thing. Such an hyper boy, and then all the times he fell, and all those accidents..."

"Accidents?" he asks again.

"See, Harry? A boy with those legs would cry after an accident, right?"

They all nod. He'd like to know more about the accidents but he loses the moment as quickly as it occurred.

"But he didn't, oh no he didn't."

"Who-"

"Jay of course, bless her, she took him to the best, obviously."

"Obviously. But they-"

"Oh no. 'This is a bad one' they told her. 'there's something wrong with this child.' but she weathered through it."

A murmur of blessings for Johannah rises and declines around the table.

Grasping the occasion, he asks.

"What accidents?"

"Boy, Harry! 'what accidents'.... The accidents. The incidents during the games, the falls, the fights after school..."

"He always had a comeback, I tell you, but he never was quite strong..."

"But really, every time I went to visit? That boy could come home in any state, he never cried."

"Never."

"See? Those are the signs."

And she doesn't need to say what the signs stands for, for they all know.

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"I thought Mildred was a name of fiction, until today."

he startles Louis again, and watches him scramble upright. Not being used to that crutch, Louis has a bit of difficulty with his balance, but he doesn't move to help him. God knows the older man prefers to deal with his leg as however the hell he wants.

"They should consult each other first. The men keep filling my glass, the ladies glare every time I raise it. I was about to slam it on the table and shout 'make up your mind!'" he's rewarded by Louis' small grin and a nod. The wrinkles around his eyes even make a brief appearance, making him that much happier at the sight.

Giving in into his itch, he leans in to hug Louis one-armed. Too soon, he pulls away, but he wants to gauge Louis' reaction to see if he can go for another.

Louis' frozen on the spot though, looking up ahead, at the crowd behind them. The growing darkness of the evening blurs his edges into ethereal-like lines and he fights the urge to grip him tightly so he doesn't lose him to the night. He feels like he's witnessing the threshold, a creature on the edge of reality and a darker dimension.

Man, that author really is rubbing off him, huh?

Louis looks to him slowly, and he can't see anything else among sadness, desperation and fear. He came too strong again, fuck.

"Sorry, that was... not okay, I get it. Sorry Lou." as he speaks, though, Louis' head shakes frantically and a hand rises towards his chest, timid, shaking.

He's suddenly hyper aware of the moment, Louis doesn't move to touch him often, and that is one hell of a euphemism. As he feared, Louis is not ready yet and he retreats his hand and looks down. His move, so he he steps forward. He doesn't even have to lean in again, he just raises his arms and Louis immediately closes the distance.

Ah, Louis' small frame, he missed it. Is he thinner? Well of course, if he eats in that forced manner he ate when Lottie visited.

He suddenly wants to cook him lunch and see his man properly fed. God, he missed his hair, silky and thick. His stomach churns with the need to do something and to stop the urge he blurts out the first thing which comes up.

"I missed you."

Doubt seizes him instantly as he feels Louis's body going rigid and he searches for a dampener apology when he feels Louis' smaller hand pinch the edge of his jacket and Louis' voice resonates against his chest.

Harry.

Louis' voice is a small treasure to the world. It has a strange ring in it, it's not low but it's not high-pitched, it's a strangely sweet and kind-of-high voice for a man. It has a unique richness in his opinion, a crystalline echo, sweeter and softer than any other voice he's heard.

He loves how Louis says his name. Entire sentences in a name. His.

He circles Louis' smaller frame better, happily, humming, losing himself in the feeling of having Louis in his arms again. His grin is about to split his face in two but he doesn't care.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, but too soon their names are enthusiastically called from behind them. Louis freezes and only for decency's sake he detaches himself and slots in the older man's side instead. If he could he would have talked to them with his limbs wrapped around his man. See if they learn like that.

"You must be the famous Harry!" it's a couple. Is everyone hetero here, by the way? Someone spoke about an uncle and his partner in ushed manners, but nobody presented him yet...

"Looking good Tommo, by the way, nice ceremony." throws the man.

"Yeah, it was beautiful! New crutch?" continues the woman. What? Fuck. He doesn't have time to either look at Louis' reaction or speak, though.

"Harry, right? Gosh, you are a good catch! He's a good catch Tommo, not like the other ones! You know the... the other ones. Johnny, Mark.." starts counting the man. The woman slaps his arm before he can do it.

"Really Fran! Must you go there?"

"You're right, sorry, they're too many anyway!" laughs the man while he fights the strong feral urge to to lean in, ask "pardon?" and punch him in the face.

"Mind if we borrow your last one, Louis? Where did you order him anyway? I want one too!" says the woman turning to the man, who feigns being hurt in the heart, and with a step, the man links his arm with his. What the hell? He can't believe these people. Hands off!

"Really Louis, no need to be like this, you will be perfectly fine without Harry even if you let him breathe on his own for five minutes!"

What the fuck are you spouting? He wants to cry in indignation but he feels Louis slipping backward. He reacts too late, and he grips nothing but air. He turns to the older man for explanation but Louis' sporting the most horrible, fake smile a statue could boast.

The couple chats in this way all the way to a table full on razor sharp grins. Ssshit.

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"-and I'm telling you this for your sake Harry, but he was hurt. Like, permanently hurt." keeps on non-whispering one of the cousins.

He is not sure how much she knows about gay sex but he's not going to offer one bit about Louis' and his (very fine thankyouverymuch) sexual life. Especially after his first attempt to defend Louis was welcomed with jovial mirth.

"And he seems like a good bloke.." says one of the men, shaking his head sadly.

"I know right." rebuts one of the women. "to be so deprived..."

"He must have something in his mind."

General murmur of fear and agreement.

"Or he lacks something in his mind."

Another general murmur of fear and agreement.

"Say what you want, but I've spoken with one of his lovers, face-to-face, it's still one of the most upsetting memories I have."

"Oh god."

"Abuse, stalking, kidnapping..."

"He didn't?"

"He did. Said he kept him locked in the house."

A unison gasp of horror raises from the presents. He sips his drink and waits for a breach to be left open.

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The third time he reaches Louis he manages to make him sit back down and spans his hand on Louis' petit back, smiling at the feeling, when he's swept away by three elderly aunts. Definitely not greataunts, as they're zealous to remind him.

Louis watches him go with that smile on and he's seriously starting to like this day less and less, despite Louis' presence.

From the table of the aunts, definitely not greataunts, he learns how Louis, apparently a psychopath from the cradle, killed all the pets of the household and of innocent guests by stabbing them with his crutch or feining to trip and consequently maiming the poor animals.

He could have weathered though the Horror Stories Hour fine with the reward of going to Louis - maybe with the advantage of the night they could make an escape together- when he saw one of the cousins, after long discussion at the matrimonial table, going to Louis and talking to him, which resulted in his man walking back into the restaurant.

Eh no. He thinks, finishing his drink and standing up.

This is where he draws the line.

.

.

.

Navigating in a dim-lit restaurant after four glasses of alcohol and almost zero solid food causes him to make a necessary pitstop to the loo before venturing to the entrance and ask after Louis.

He's washing his hands when one of the booth's door opens. Not hearing the water's slosh, he looks up to glare at the man, but since Destiny's blessed them (he already knew that but it's nice seeing it reiterated), it's Louis, looking down and trying to set a pace as not to let the door slam on his back.

"Lou!" he exclaims instictively. Louis notices him and jolts in surprise, causing the door to slam, in fact, on his rear and he stumbles forward.

He knows that with that crutch is virtually impossible to fall, but he's noticed Louis is not familiar with it, so to cut the risks, he spins around and make a dash for it, extending his arms underneath Louis' leaner ones.

Louis looks up to him and he looses himself in the specks of aquamarine in the older man's eyes. He could stare at them for hours. Hours.

Harry.

mutters Louis, and it could be a 'fancy seeing you here' but more like a 'what the hell are you doing here?'. If he reads Louis' disbelief correctly, it's the second one.

He starts shaking with happiness, but a cold shiver runs down his spine when he sees hordes of relatives swarming on them in his mind.

He pries himself away from his man with great mental effort and goes to lock the door. Oh, that's better!

When the turns, Louis' looking at him in open incredulity. He decides to deal with that later because now he only wants an armful of his man. And did he mention how much he missed him? Seriously, count him missed.

He realizes he's humming a litany of 'missed you' in Louis' hair and fearing that he's coming too strong again, he relinquishes his hold a bit, stroking Louis' bicepts instead of a full-on hug and rests his forehead on Louis' forehead for a second before checking his condition.

Louis looks drugged, his eyes are ajar and his lips are, too. He's panting softly, slowly, and looking at Louis causes his own heart to start trying to tug its way out of his ribcage. Louis looks hot and edible on a normal day, but now he just looks... it's a mixture of sexy and innocent and he's tugged between the urges of fucking the older man on one of the sinks and tucking him into bed with a cup of tea and a nice movie, possibly with bonus himself acting as a pillow. Oh, he would make an incredibly comfortable pillow for Louis, he's sure of it.

He looks at Louis' lips, counts to three, then into the blue eyes. They're slightly widened, like they always are when he's about to initiate such contact. The miniscule nod he receives makes him lean in slowly, slowly, giving Louis the time he needs to back off, if he wants. Louis' lips are chapped, slightly less warm than he remembers (easily adjustable) and still unsure (hopefully adjustable).

He flicks his tongue out, once, barely a whisk, changes the angle, strokes Louis' arms downward, without haste, then licks Louis' lips more attentively, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Louis chases him as he leans back, and comforted by that, he leans in again. He feels Louis' tongue licking his upper lip, lightly, so lightly that it's almost not there, but he knows better and he cherises the action immensely.

He shifts and scratches his nose against Louis' prickly scruff, shorter than usual, probably for the wedding. He wonders if Louis wanted to cut it or he was forced to as he noses Louis' ear.

He loves his man so much. Every part of him. He feels drunk on him already and it's been mere minutes.

"Lou." he whines. "Let's go home." He wants to go back to everything they have. All the small things.

Home?

whispers Louis in his neck and he leans back. The smaller man's looking at him with wide eyes, afraid. He doesn't know what of, though.

"Yeah. Home. Y'know? Cadore. Belluno. Italy." He knows he's pouting but he doesn't care. He wants home now. He doesn't want all those people.

"They were all talking strange, Lou." he whines rubbing his cheek against Louis' hair. It's so soft, Louis' so soft. He hugs him again, reveling in the perfect spot on the small of his back, made for his hands. Their whole bodies are made for each other, Louis fitting perfectly in his arms.

"Saying strange things. Talking about you. I didn't like it. Louuuu-iis." he whines again, feeling restless. When he leans back, Louis' free hand is resting against his chest. He likes it there, Louis' hands are small and look even smaller on those rare occasions they've rested on his body. He looks at the other hand and cringes. Ew.

"I don't like that Lou." He realizes too late that he's saying it out loud. Well, it's the truth. "Your cane or your crutch. Th're better. Where's the cane? I don't like it." he says a bit louder, as if he could make the thing shy away and disappear, like Louis often does with him.

The weight on his chest shifts and disappears. He's about to protest when he sees the familiar sight of Louis typing. He likes watching Louis' fingers dance on the touch screen. Loves it.

They took my crutch.

He frowns at that. The hell? "I'll fetch it for you, where is it? In the restaurant's closet?" He mentally locates it, mapping out what he saw at the entrance. Louis shakes no and types.

Family's house's cellar. The maid has the keys.

Trying not to dwell on the fact that Louis' family has a maid (holy shit?), he numbly asks if he can't get her to open it.

She only opens it on my mother's direct instructions.

"Bugger." he murmurs, resting his chin on Louis' soft locks again.

He doesn't know if he's cuddling with him or hugging him, but cuddling him makes him think of home and home makes him think of all the ways in which he wants Louis. Among them are the sexual ones, of course. He wants Louis now too, naturally, the man looks like sex on legs in a suit, he doesn't care what Louis says against it, Louis does. But he's not going to do anything without proper lube and condom (crossing his fingers about that) and most importantly, not with those bloody awful people outside their little alcove. Which is a bathroom by the way. It's an elite restaurant's bathroom, sure, but he's not eighteen anymore, and Louis is not a quickie in the loos as much as his libido would like that, for god's sake.

His hands move on body memory, though, and before he notices, he's hoisting Louis' thighs up slightly. He sees his injured leg twitching from the corner of his vision and he lets go of the healthy one to massage Louis' bum. Soon he doesn't know what he's doing anymore. Louis' breath is loud in his ear, a faint whine at the back of Louis' throat resounds between them, so he just follows what his heart wants, half knowing and half hoping that he can stop himself.

He kneads Louis' bum, first and foremost, so nobody will be able to say that he didn't pay it its due tribute. Best fucking arse in the whole fucking world if anyone asks him. Although if anyone does ask him he might not be responsible for his actions anymore.

"Louis." He calls against the man's temple, knowing already that he's going too far. And yet, temptation is too strong, and for the last time, he promises himself, he checks that Louis is directly in front of the firm panel between one toilet door and the other and he hoists Louis' thighs up and brings them around his hips. Fuck yes, best feeling in the world. He checks that Louis' head doesn't bump against the panel and hopes on his healthy leg like he's done a couple before. He rises his hand and yes, Louis' leg doesn't let him down, literally too, so he cards the older man's hair at his leisure and strokes his arm which has gone limp around the crutch's handle.

"Louis. Want to go home. When are we going home?" Is he like this when he drinks with Zayn and Liam? He's not sure. Maybe. He hopes to god he's not. He does talk about Louis a lot, they tell him, so maybe some whining about his favourite man might or might not be uttered here and there.

Soon.

Whispers Louis, his 's' dragging out and he shouldn't find the drop of spit Louis releases when he talks hot. He shouldn't. He nonetheless prays that Louis will let him lick it one day.

"Soon." he repeats to himself, and when Louis' hands set to rest lightly against his lower back he doesn't fight the purr from his throat, too blissful, and rubs his face on Louis' cheeks, ears, neck, jaw.

"Lou. Louuu. Home." his vocabulary has reduced to his sex one, he notices, and all their points of contacts, especially Louis' thighs deliciously circling him, are becoming a bit too hot for comfort. Shit.

He mentally slaps himself and still feeling high on his man, he slowly eases Louis down.

The friction of their groin when they're at the same height make him bite back an hiss, but pointedly ignores the 'little' flaw in his non-sexual plan as he strokes Louis' injured thigh. He needed that, fuck his plans.

He sees Louis' gripping back the crutch uncertainly and scowls at it. He really, really doesn't like it.

Harry.

He hears Louis mutter. He looks at his face, but the smaller man's looking down at his constrained erection. Fuckshit. He didn't mean it to be sexual, really. But if he says so, Louis will take it negatively. He's glad he can navigate his own words instictively now, he didn't like making Louis uncomfortable in their first phase.

"Don't worry about it. Sorry, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Are you...? Uncomfortable? In any way?" he adds, knowing that Louis can't be as hard as he is without his... help. In confirmation, Louis shakes his head. He sighs in relief and strokes the thinner man's arms, uncapable of stepping back as he should be doing.

"Good, good." he mutters non-commital.

Harry.

says Louis again, looking down still.

"No no, don't mind it really. Ignore it. I don't want... I mean, not here. Not with those people outside."

Louis, thank goodness, doesn't dwell on his verbal slip and nods.

They stand in silence for a while when he remembers something important.

"For your information I had four glasses of wine total today. I'm not drunk. I wasn't, I'm not acting on alcohol. I'm a bit typsy, all right, but I'm definitely not drunk, I hold better than that. It was me, just me." He knows he did the right thing to set that straight when Louis looks up and his face is a lovely shade of red. Louis nods once, slowly.

"Alright. And you can interrogate me on this tomorrow, you know. Every single second of this. We should text more often, anyway. If you want." Alcohol makes his tongue more loose, he notices with a mental reprimand. He doesn't want to push Louis in any way, he doesn't want to scare him.

He's rewarded by Louis' small grin though, so he lets it go.

"Sorry if I startled you by talking about home, too." he mouths against Louis' forehead, just because he can. "It's just. Mom moved. Gemma's living with his partner." He sighs. Is he doing it again? Seriously? "Gosh, sorry, I'm saying this but I really don't mean to push you Lou. Fuck..."

He feels Louis shifting and he leans back enough to give him space to type.

It's all right, it wasn't exactly my home before you arrived but I've started to think of it as our home.

"Really? You don't have to say that just because I did first." He adds with a pout. Louis shakes no and types.

My family's house doesn't exactly feel like that anymore.

The fact that Louis wasn't feeling at home before him, or even before he went to live with him, unsettles him, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he chuckles at another train of thought.

"Between you and me? Your family's a bit... intense." he admits and thank god Louis nods and imitates his grin sheepishly.

He fights with his thoughts before speaking again. He doesn't know however else to ask.

"Are you going back outside?"

A shake. He knew it.

"Did they tell you to go home?"

Looking ashamed, Louis nods.

"Okay." he just says, stroking Louis' bicept absend-mindedly. He hates seeing Louis ashamed but reprimanding him is the last thing to do and that he wants to do. "Can I come with you? I mean, I take it you have a private driver."

Louis nods and types

He should be waiting outside the entrance. He can drop you off too.

"Oh shit! We've been making wait for ages!" He exclaims, suddenly mortified of his own libido. Seriously, he's not a horny teenager anymore!

But to his defense, it's partly Louis' fault too. Looking like that, being his usual self...

.

.

Navigating the restaurant to the exit, he thinks he sees relatives springing up from every corner so he pinches Louis' sleeve to make sure he has at least one point of contact.

Louis regards him, raising one eyebrow in question and he has to be careful not to trip on nothing at the endearing sight.

"I swear to god, Lou, if they try to separate us again I'm going to throw you on my shoulder and make a run for it." he says browsing their surroundings.

Louis' bows his head and his shoulders shake with a silent chuckle.

So all in all, he doesn't count the day as wasted.

  
  
.

.

.

.

## At the door, with eyes wide open

Beek-faasssssh. Beek-faasssssh. He morosely takes account of the drops of saliva that he spit out with the word.

He-rrrrrrri.

Okay, Harry's name is at least still understandable.

Loff. Loff. All right, he can do this.

Loff. Yew.

He sighs. He can't do it.

.

.

Useless to say that the first weeks after they got home - and he's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Harry considers this his home - he was quite subdued.

After having his head told off by every single member of the family, apparently they passed Harry among themselves to warn him, he was instructed to tell Harry how he felt, the extension of his obsession to him, so Harry could see it that Louis was more involved, too much involved, they said, and he would go out and let his place be (partially) filled by a nurse, so they wouldn't worry. Worry about the family's image and decency, of course.

Hehrrrry. Aai. Lofff. Yew.

He sighs one last time, before slipping his new splint into its container and going to breakfast.

Halfway to the kitchen, his leg starts to spasm. The soft quick 'thud thud thud' against the floor gets on his nerve fast and he strains his ear to find Harry apparently handling cutlery in the kitchen, so he bends to punch his leg square on the knee. The spasm subdues and throbs starts. That's right. At least it hurts for something instead for fucking nothing.

He hates to impose his moods on Harry, especially since they are caused by conditions which will apparently accompany him for life. He hates his summer medical examinations because it's just a reiteration of 'Let's not get our hopes up' and 'You are having an active and fulfilled social life, aren't you?'.

Well fuck them. If he wants to be a recluse, he will be a fucking recluse. He has the money for it. Money he's earning, not from his family' account (which is closed off to him since he admitted he wouldn't further the family's name).

Harry is not helping either. According to Anne (didn't he tell you?), Harry refused a job in Bologna, Forli (same university), in Torino and Milano. He accepted to translate documents for a bank and a law firm because they're okay with sending everything via email or file-sharing instead of having him called in an office.

Harry chose to work from home. To stay here with him. After all the heavily implied accusations and instructions from his family, feeling like he's trapping Harry in a miserable, miserable nursing life is the euphemism of the year.

Most of all, he hates that Harry has to live with him when he's unlivable with. He hates himself so much. But the more he becomes frustrated with himself, the more his mood darkens, the worse he's making living with him, and from the start again.

He huffs a long breath, his palm pressed to his forehead, trying to calm himself down at least for one meal. At least one meal. He can do this.

Harry looks at him from the corner of his eyes, always considerate and the quick learner, his face perpetually set in a frown these days.

Harry should have the world. He should live with a man he loves. A normal man. Who can do all the things he can't do. Part of them because of his stupid body. Most of them because of his stupider mind.

He's making Harry's life miserable, with every second that he's living.

It's not a good food for thought. Especially since he already came back from that place once, years back, but he pulled himself out and moved here.

That's right. He could move again. Does Thailand have lakes? He'll leave the house to Harry.

.... He likes it here though. There are his editor. Niall. Zayn and Liam. The Cadores. The lake. Harry.

He doesn't want to hurt Harry, in any way. That's why, he told himself from the beginning, he would wait until Harry realized how crazy staying with him is and dump Louis' freaky ass.

"Louis... Is there anything I can do?" His nerves explode and he slams his fist on the table, making the tuppleware jump.

Frustrated with himself at the outburst, he walks out of the room. Harry's been asking that since the beginning of the week, after the first two, when he was worrying in silence. He's been asking variations of offers to help during the meals, the only times he lets himself impose his horrible moods on Harry.

Doing his business quickly, nodding and thanking, and then get out, that's how he should live with people.

In the hallway, he realizes he just slammed his fist on the table to Harry. He almost did that, during dinner, the day before yesterday. Gosh, he can't believe he truly did something so childish and loony.

He's in front of the terrace, he goes out. He slomps on the stuffed bench and grips his hair, pulling and pulling. The pain tells him that he's a moron so he digs his fingers in his scalp and they tell him that he's a moron, too. Good, that's good. That's what he deserves.

The door rattles in its hinges and Harry sits slowly in front of him.

He thinks of 'Lou' shaped in Harry's voice. How much he loves hearing it. Undeserving. He recalls of the declinations of help Harry's offered in the last days. Undeserving. He feels the pain the new splint makes bloom in the sides of his jaw. Good. Exactly what he deserves.

Harry. I. Love. You. He can do this.

IIII fffo.

"Your phone?" whispers Harry, most probably watching the outline of his smartphone in his pocket. Furious, he shakes his head. He feels like if he takes one hand off his forehead he will explode.

Mmmmaa ffffffol.

Damn it, the 't' didn't even come out, did it? Harry, bless him, sits quietly in front of him, although he imagines the younger man is probably frustrated over not being able to understanding him this time. He doesn't want to frustrate other poeople he does the job all by himself wonderfully.

Mmmmaa

damn it, easy now...

fault.

"Your fault." suggests Harry with a hint of question and he nods, relieved. "What's your fault, nothing's your fault!" exclaims Harry and FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

What did he say about telling the truth, about not doing like everyone else, like his so-called family, who hide behind smiles and sweet nothings, instead of telling him what is wrong, where he is wrong, so he can correct himself and get on people's nerves. They should tell even though he he knows already, deep down, he knows already!

The lake resounds with his scream, his clutch his ears, trying to compress them so much he won't hear lies again. Because of who he is, because of where he comes from. Lies, lies, lies. Everywhere.

"Your fault! It's your fault! All of it!"

...... all right.

As long as Harry gets it. He nods at Harry's words. The truth. Good.

In complete silence, he shrugs off Harry's hand, gripping his arms, and walks inside to work.

As long as they're on the same page.

.

.

.

He's in the shower that night and he thinks it's a dream when Harry opens the door with only his briefs on, goes on his knees, kisses Louis' dick, and asks if he can blow him. He thinks it's a dream when Harry sucks him like he's really enjoying it while he's fingered like the world is going to end in a minute. He thinks it's a dream when Harry washes his hair and the come off of them afterwards.

He thinks it's a dream when Harry carries him to bed, the both of them wrapped in fluffy towels, and stares at him as he circles his rim lazily.

"Lou." murmurs Harry and he makes a humming sound in response and further enquiry.

"Do you remember when you told me you were clean?"

Mh? What a strange occasion to remind him of that. It was before the last Christmas holidays. Harry had started living with him. And although he didn't tell anyone here in Italy, he got too greedy one night and asked for something. It would have been his birthday present. So if Harry went back, spent time with normal people, and decided he wanted to go back to that, normalcy, Louis would have had that at least.

He nods, unsure of where this is going. Is Harry going to mock his naivety of that night?

"I got texted. It took me ages, didn't it? Queues. But, I-I got the results." says Harry, worry and fear etched deep in his expression, his eyes dart on the bedside table, and truthfully, there's a mail-folded sheet of paper. He picks his phone, which is underneath, and types

I don't need to read them. I trust you.

Harry's eyes flutter close and the spit-wet finger that was rimming him, slips inside to the knuckle in one smooth push. Okay, now he got what Harry's plan is. To kill him. For good.

When Harry opens his eyes, they're dark. He looks like an avenging god, with the aid of the golden light from the bathroom coming to strike his mane of curls and his quivering shoulders.

"Please. Would you do this for me?" Well, when Harry puts it that way.

He places the phone back, picking up the papers this time. The results tell him what he expected, Harry's clean. The realization, though, seems to hit him only in that moment. Harry's cock. Inside of him. Without latex. His----

"It's totally fine if you don't want, I just wanted to tell you, since that day, to put it out there-" as Harry is speaking, he shakes his head jerkily. No no no, of course he wants to do it. Then, just for good measure, he nods too.

Harry's chuckle is short and throaty and he places the sheets back on the table, while Harry's sneaky finger wiggles inside of him and all of a sudden he can't wait for Harry to be inside of him. Now now now seems to sing his body. He wants it now, now!

After taking a break to fold the towels and use them to prop his hips up, Harry starts to murmur against his (slightly hollowed) belly. At first, Harry whispers so lowly he can only make out words like "selfish", "old", "boring", and unlike the other times, his cock fills up minute by minute, slow, lazy, heavy. Harry takes the lube and spurts out a bit, then strokes his erection, once, dragging the touch.

His hands flies above the pillow the headboard as he watches the movement, savouring what is about to come, and he feels tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

Then, the familiar pressure of Harry's endowed cock teases his rim. It's warmer than usual. He hears Harry closing the bottle and gripping his hips. A nudge and the cockhead slides easily in.

He almost forgot how good the stretch is. After nearly three months of nothing, and when he says nothing he means nothing, he's suddenly impossibly glad that Harry sucked him first, or he would be coming right in this moment.

"You're such a crybaby, crying every two seconds." comes Harry's husky voice from another place, low, hoarse, and perfect. Like the stretch that settles inside him. He feels a hand opening his good leg wide, another one bending his bad one just so, and he's propelled down the surface, hot all over. Harry knows his body so well, he can let go completely.

My fault he intends to cry out but he's been in such a shitty mood that it morphs into a name.

Harry.

He cries out, the 'r' rolling on his tongue familiarly. His jaw aches terribly, he must be such a sorry sight. When the hands on his hips caress his whole torso, he opens his eyes, Harry comes up from nosing his chest and they look at each other for what feels like a small eternity.

Suddenly raising himself himself up, Harry squeezes himself into his rim again and the walls of muscles quiver around him, sucking him in. It's too good, it feels rough and raw and dirties than he thought and it's just so good.

"I don't know about everything, but it's certainly your fault we have to do the laundry every fucking time the morning after."

Harry's words, spot on about what he wants to hear, resounds clearly in his bliss, and he feels so elated he could smile through his tears.

There's a loud squelch when Harry readjusts himself and starts with shallow thrusts, not getting out more than strictly necessary. It's different than the sound lube-slick latex does. It's filthier, hundreds of times more brilliant.

"Crying everywhere, spilling everywhere, soaking the sheets like a little child." he cries out in assent. He is. He is.

My fault.

Harry!

he nearly screams. All of it. With a short halt, Harry starts again, the shallow thrusts forgotten in favour of his usual feral pounding.

"Whining and kicking your feet like a little spoiled brat, making everyone look after you constantly. One has to look at your ID to know you're an adult."

Again, there is something humorous about Harry's tone but he doesn't dare smile through his tears least he puts Harry off the mood and it's the last thing he wants to do. There's something livid in the thrusts, something insisting, addressing him, calling, but he can't search for it in the green eyes, he's blinded by his tears. He cries loudly, like a child, his cries boom in the room as his cock spurts uncontrollably. He's already starting twitching and his initial want to drag this first time flies out of the window.

"Like a baby, crying for a grown up. Like a baby, you want to be protected and coddled, and cry all the time, you just want to cry all the time. One has to keep a box of kleenex at hand around."

He can't help it, a small chuckle is knocked out of him along with more tears but before he can look at Harry apologetically, he's coming.

For the second time that day he comes so hard the darkness behind his eyeslids is coloured with tiny fireworks as Harry strokes him through it. Harry's panting heavily above him, there's a loud perfect slap sound between his legs, but he's too busy being filled with relief. Something breaks inside of him. They told him to tell Harry how he feels and drives him off but he doesn't want to. Harry is here with him and everything's perfect, he doesn't want to. It's like Harry said, he's a child who cries all the time, so he does, all the times he's wanted to cry this summer, so frustrated at his relatives, he can do so now. Because Harry knows.

Harry!

"Sssh. Got you. 'm here." it's amazing how Harry's vocabulary goes from a hundred to zero when he's concentrating on his own orgasm, but he wants to hear something. He's a spoiled prat, and he wants to hear it.

He turns his good leg slightly so he squeezes tight around Harry's cock.

"L-Lou."

There, that.

He tries to meet Harry's thrust but he's too weak, he whimpers at the hipersensitivity on his own dick, which Harry promptly lets go and both of his bigger hands clutch his hips again. He times Harry's erratic thrusts and when he feels his cock hitting the spot, he pulls his muscles as tight as he can.

"Lou- ngh- Fuck."

There's a burst of heat, hotter than he ever felt. This is how it feels having Harry truly inside him. It's brilliant, he doesn't want to feel anything else until Harry will have him.

Cool air hits him as Harry slips out but there's liquid trailing down his creak and his cheeks stay enflamed while Harry walks into the bathroom.

The fog isn't as thick as usual but he blames it anyway when he clenches his hole again, trying to keep Harry's come inside for a moment longer.

.

.

.

Hehrrrry. Aaai. Lofff. Yeww.

This wouldn't be so damn hard if he didn't have to practice in front of the mirror. His stupid reflection looks back at him, that's why.

Hehrrrryyy. Aaaai. Ouch, the new splint doesn't joke around. His jaw stings from the worse side but it must be because he still has to adjusts and he's refused the new medications. Who cares, fall is starting to show his windy, cold fangs and it's not like it will make things easier for him. Come on, slow and understandable.

Loffff. Yuuuu.

There, that sounded almost awful instead of just horrific. Progress.

He grips the edge of the sink tighter as he scratches his eyes, the bathroom's light hurting a bit and he's tired in general, maybe, just maybe, he can hope to fall asleep soon tonight. Two strong orgasms are not a common occurrence for his body, after all.

He muses that there is something poetic in all this madness. Repeating four words over and over with a new hurt in his jaw and a familiar one between his legs, declaring his most reserved feelings in the middle of the night in front of a mirror for the man who will most probably run away as soon as he hears them.

His bad leg spasm occasionally, too worn out from the orgasms to spasm normally. His eyes are still puffy from earlier's tears.

He stares at his horrible reflection. Multypling mirrors huh. He's read somewhere that mirrors and fatherhood are abominable, but he prefers another reading of the sophism, a misreading of it, to be more precise: mirrors and copulation are abominable. Because they multiply what they see.

If that is the case, he hopes the mirror of the bathroom, the only one in his possession, multiplies his words until he's able to tell them to the person they're intended to.

He feels a trickle, probably the last drop of Harry's come, between the crease of his bum before it's absorbed by the fabric of his boxers.

Heh-rrrry. Aaai. Loofff. Yuuu.

He scratches his eyes again, beads of tears he doesn't know whether from tiredness or something else. Looking up one last time, he sees Harry in the mirror.

His heart beat plummets. He spins around quicker than he can draw the next breath.

Harry stands at the door, with eyes wide open.

.

.

.


End file.
